Page 97 of Necessary Cruelty

Plenty of time for all the things I want to do to her.

When her back is cleaner than any piece of skin should rightfully ever be, I lean forward to whisper in her ear. My murmur is barely loud enough to be heard over the rush of water from the showerhead.

“You have about thirty seconds to get out of here before I fuck you up against the wall.”

Her smile widens as she backs toward the spray of water. “It takes longer than that to rinse my hair out.”

Before she can say anything else smart, I press my lips hard against hers.

I can count on two fingers the number of times I’ve kissed a girl, unless you want to count pecking Emma on the forehead when she was a baby. Both times were about Zaya, because everything has always been about her, even when I refused to admit it.

Once was to make her jealous.

Twice was to make her mine.

But I only kiss her now because I want to taste her again. Her scent suffuses my senses, warm cotton laid in the sun with just the lightest hint now of roses. If I had known kissing her would be like this, I might have started doing it sooner.

Zaya melts against me. Her body fits against mine like a matching puzzle. My hand wraps around her slim waist to pull her closer to me. Everything about her is soft, yielding. I don’t sense any of the resistance that has characterized every other encounter we’ve ever had. Usually, I have to compel her responses, force her to accept what her body craves, even when her mind screams out protests.

There is no hesitation here.

My hands settle over her breasts, stroking and punching until her breaths come in desperate gasps. I force my tongue in her mouth, just as I twist one taut nipple between my fingers so I swallow her low moan.

She breaks our kiss. “You did my back, let me do your front.”

The diamond glitters on her finger underneath the spray of water. She keeps adjusting it back down since the ring ends up closer to her knuckle because it needs to be resized. I didn’t do that, because it seemed liked a step too far considering the temporary nature of all this, but now I’m rethinking that.

I don’t have a choice but to release my hold on her as she sinks to her knees in front of me. The water spray hits me square on the chest, burning hot but still soothing compared to the fire raging inside of me. My hands push into the strands of her hair, curls slippery from the conditioner she hasn’t washed out. I pull a curl out with my fingers, watching it spring back when I let go.

Her hair is momentarily fascinating.

Until her slim fingers wrap around my dick and she sucks the tip of it into her mouth.

It stands up so stiff that she doesn’t need to do anything to keep it straight, but that doesn’t stop her hand from running up and down the length of me. Her cheeks pucker from the effort she puts into sucking me off. My eyes roll back into my head with the effort it takes not to come down her throat after the first minute.

Zaya could lick me like a lollipop, and it would still be the best blow job I’ve ever had. Because it’s her mouth. And her hands. It’s just her.

She pulls back enough to lick her lips before sliding them slowly back over the sensitive head of my cock. Her hands work harder, both of them twisting down my shaft. My thighs twitch and I almost lose my balance. I have to hold on to the little towel bar on the wall to keep from falling to my knees and taking her down with me.

As nice as it might be, I don’t want to come down her throat. Not this time, at least.

I yank her to her feet, catching her when she slips on the soapy floor and stumbles against me. Kissing her hard again, just because I can, my hands grip her ass and mold her body against mine.

Her leg lifts to balance on the shower ledge, grinding her herself against my upper thigh. The heat of the water is nothing compared to the furnace of her cunt against my skin.

I think about how easy it would be to slip inside of her without any barriers between us. Later, I could blame the heat of the moment and manfully insist on dealing with any potential consequences.

But she is smart enough to anticipate my thoughts, even if she doesn’t realize it.

“Condom,” she gasps against my mouth. “I think I have one in my purse.”

Her hips pull far enough away that I feel a rush of cold.

“Let me get it.”

My toiletry bag is on the counter, totally innocuous. She can’t know that the strip of condoms coiled up in the side pocket have already been prepared with the edge of a safety pin. She won’t know that they won’t provide the protection she thinks.

And I’m not going to tell her.

---