Page 68 of Caribbean Crush

I release her hair and move my hands to the front of her body, sweeping my palms over her breasts, cupping her, teasing her. Her head tips back against my shoulder, and her lips fall open. My thumbs brush over the peaks of her breasts, and she moans, so I do it again, again, again. She’s grinding back onto my hard length, her hands coming around to grip my thighs and hold me in place against her.

Water pours over us as the heat ratchets up. My aim is to touch her tenderly, but then she works her butt against me and my control shatters. My arms move lower, one bands around her stomach and the other slips between her thighs. She’s so hot, so welcoming as my fingers glide across her. She bends one of her knees, spreading open for me so I can sink my middle finger into her.

“Phillip,” she breathes with a heady sigh.

It’s like she’s so relieved to have me here touching her this way. Like she was worried she’d never experience it again. Tonight is it. She said so herself: “I swear it’s done after this.”

The thought makes me feel wild and desperate. The thought of never having this body pressed against mine ...

No.

Don’t go there.

I close my eyes to those thoughts and press another finger inside her, pumping and working her up until I feel her starting to shake. I want her to come just like this, from nothing more than my thumb gliding across her in slow circles, my fingers sweeping inside her. She starts matching my rhythm, rolling her hips against my hand, taking from me in such a bold, sexy way. It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever watched. I want more but not until after I’ve wrung the first orgasm out of her, forced her to cry out in this confined space. Pride unfurls inside me as her breaths quicken and her nails bite into my forearm. She rises up onto her toes and ... shatters.

“God.” She’s shaking as she comes back down to reality, but when she turns and her eyes meet mine, they’re dilated and wild.

“More” falls from her lips just before she hauls her body against mine and kisses me with so much passion I groan. I hold the back of her thighs so she has no choice but to wrap her arms around my neck and let me lift her up off the tiled floor. I hold her against me as our kiss deepens. Our tongues touch. Dance. I grip ahold of her thighs so tightly that I’m probably hurting her, but she doesn’t protest. She mewls against me, sliding herself over me so that a few times, I accidentally slide inside her.

I don’t have a fucking condom, and I need to feel her right now.

We should stop, but she keeps rocking against me, up and down, so that I can’t form a coherent thought to save my life.

“I’m on birth control,” she says, her words slipping out around her heavy breaths.

And that’s all my brain needed.

A green light to sink into her to the hilt. We both sigh as she squeezes me tightly, wrapping her thighs around me as I press her up against the glass.

She winces against the chill, but then I distract her with my hand between her legs again. What follows is hot and heavy, unforgiving in a way that feels punishing for us both. I watch her body bounce on me, her breasts, her red lips, her wide blue eyes. I kiss her and feel that shift happening in her again, that unfurling. She lets me know she’s close, and I slow my pace but keep my hand pressed between her legs. I look down, watching what I do to her, and she likes that—seems to enjoy everything about this because she’s coming again, so tight it’s like she has me in a vise.

Jesus, I barely manage to pull out before I fist my length and rub up and down, finishing myself off, spilling down the front of her body. I watch the water wash her clean.

Neither of us moves.

I peer up at her, hoping for a smile or some kind of lightness there, but her expression mirrors my own. Troubled and confused, if I had to guess.

“Let me finish cleaning you,” I say, looking away.

I feel guilty for manhandling her like that. What started as soothing, controlled, and simple ... just got away from me. She does that. She draws that out of me.

I take care of her now, finishing with soap, rubbing her arms and legs. She’s quieter than ever. Passive and pliable. I cut the water and walk us out onto the heated tile floor. I wrap her up in a big towel, getting another for her hair.

She watches me in the mirror while I wring out her strands. I move, and she tracks me, lazy, sated, more at ease now than she was when I found her out in the hallway. It breaks my heart to think of her crying out there all alone.

“Do you feel like talking about it now?” I ask, my voice low.

She shakes her head, and I kiss her shoulder.

“All right. I’m going to order us some food. I’m starving. Let me get you some clothes to change into.”

In my closet, I find a soft T-shirt and a pair of pajama pants for her. I smile thinking of how she’ll look in them. Amazing, obviously, but cute too.

“You can tighten the drawstring,” I say when I hand them over to her. “They should work.”

She smiles and nods. “Thanks.”

She retrieves her things from the bathroom—her damp bikini and cover-up—and then she goes out into the living room to change into my clothes. I order room service, using the phone on my bedside table, likely overdoing it with strawberry and chocolate milkshakes, pizza, french fries—anything that seems delicious and might offer her some comfort.

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