Page 73 of His Pretty Little Duet

Something irrevocably sad passes over his gaze, a brief disturbance, a slight interruption to his otherwise controlled mien. "Take that little dress off. Come here."

Ignoring my body's predisposition to obey him, I ask, "Did you find the?—"

He raises a finger, effortlessly wielding the control over my tongue, silencing my question. "I don't want your words right now, sweet girl. But I do need you in here with me. Agree or leave."

I don't want my questions blocked, but I want even less to leave and exponentially more to be what heneeds."Yes, Sir."

Gripping the hem of my gown, I slip it slowly up my body. The scorching heat of his gaze follows the seam's path over my thighs, pussy, stomach, and breasts, causing me to moan. Thesilken fabric caresses my flesh, putting a tangible sensation to his predatory watch.

I pull it free, flicking my hair free also. Standing naked in front of him, I focus on breathing through my endorphins, ignoring the damn butterflies.

Glancing down his body, I swallow as he grows until his cock is thick and bouncing by his navel. The pink head pokes out from his foreskin. It looks so smooth. Menacing.

I glance back, finding his eyes hovering on my beading nipples as I move to stand with him in the large shower. I used to joke I could hang a coat on my nipples, but truthfully when they pebble, they ache and buzz with discomfort. More so since getting knocked-up.

As I join him, he steps backwards, allowing me access to the downpour. The water glitters on our bodies while the steam hangs in the air.

Although he is the epitome of smooth, effortless control, his eyes flash with pain and need and something that twists my stomach. Something that makes my eyes burn. What could have affected him so?

I touch his cheek, and he closes his eyes.

I think I love you.

Taking the opportunity, I drag my fingers down from his cheek to the hard, flat planes of his chest and then caress the rolling slab at his abdomen until my fingers touch the tip of his cock's pink head. I gasp as it pulses, and I slide my hands back up and over the ridges and dips that form each muscle. He opens his eyes and watches me explore him.

There is very little youthful about him, in the sense that he is all hard edges, defined lines, every inch of him a machine of a man. Just another way Clay has utter control over every aspect of his life.

My hands slide in the soap at his abdominals and follow the thick muscles carving an angle down each hip. I trace the images laced in ink above his caramel skin. Three legs fanned out around a face, a heart and a gun at his right hip. In a straight line from his left pectoral to his left hip, words are written in another language. Across his collarbone, a subtle scar that looks old is weaved with an ink vine as if to make the mutilation beautiful, as well as draw attention to it.

I wonder why.

A tattoo was something I had never thought about. I might get one... maybe a butterfly, only because they live so erratically within me whenever he is around. Their presence will be a constant reminder of the weeks I spent being his...

When his big hands travel up my sides, I quiver under the all-encompassing attention. He is so much taller than me; he reaches right over my shoulder and retrieves a bottle of shower gel from the sill behind.

He lathers the gel into his hands, creating fragrant foam, before caressing my throat and chest with the suds.

He's washing me...

As he cups the lower curve of my breast, I tremble with emotion and yearning. With desire. Leaning into his palms, I urge him for more pressure. He works both handfuls. His thumb and forefinger flick my pointed nipples, and I cry out as the sensation overwhelms me.

"Fuckit," he hisses through his teeth. Then he drops to his knees, takes a nipple into his mouth, and sucks on it, long and thoroughly. I grip the dark wet hair on his crown, holding him to me as he gently treats my nipples, switching from one to the other. He is so tender tonight; tears sting the backs of my eyes, wanting to announce my emotions.

As he stands, his hands trail the length of my sides, stopping under my arms so he can lift me effortlessly. Placing me on the ledge inside the shower, he opens my thighs wide.

His gaze lingers on my body, and mine is on his heated, chiselled features as he concentrates on cleaning me. Rubbing soap into my thighs, his hands cover the entire breadth of each soft column. He is all hard. I am all soft and pliable, and it feels so right.

As his fingers near my pussy, I shuffle on the tiled ledge, tilting my hips slightly, invitingly. His fingers touch my lips, and then he strokes between them. I arch my neck back, my chin to the ceiling, moaning, the sound bouncing off the glass shower casing.

He slides a finger inside me, and I buck, clench.

"That's my good girl.Fuck...You're sucking me in, sweet girl. Have you been thinking about me?" He slides another long finger in and moves them in unison, stealing my breath with each rhythmic stroke. I join the motion of his skilled hand. "I asked you a question."

"Yes,"I pant.

"And what thoughts have you so deliciously wet that you are dripping all over my fingers?"

"Your mouth on my pussy..." I moan as he rocks his finger within my clenching walls. "The ice. The..."The way you say 'mine.' The way you called me 'your belonging.' Your smell. Your lips. God, I want your lips.

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