Page 46 of Resisting Mr Black

I breathe in the scent of him and feel strangely content. “I can’t imagine smelling of anything else.”

Large soapy hands sweep across my rib cage and cup my breasts as he shifts closer behind me, and I feel his erection press in between my buttocks.

I turn to face him and gaze up at him towering above me. This is the first time I’ve had the freedom to touch all of him. I savour the sight of his taut, tanned skin as the water cascades down the curves of his muscles. Droplets hang from his unfairly long dark lashes as he watches me, and I feel a fizz between my thighs. I’ll never grow tired of looking at him. His body, his face. All of him. I press my palms flat against his chest and note how it rises beneath my hands as his breathing hitches. I keep my eyes on his as I glide my hands lower, across his ribs, and down across his abs. His gaze remains on my hands as they work their way down his body. It seems he’s just as affected by my touch as I am by his. I brush my fingers across the small silvery scar beneath his belly button. The nagging voice in the back of my head returns as I peer at the only thing to mar his perfect appearance.

“What happened?”

“I got into a fight.”

“Is it… is it a stab wound?”

“It happened a long time ago.” There’s an edge to his voice, telling me to step away from the conversation. Before I can decide whether I’m going to push him further or not, he flashes a wolfish grin. “Do you want to move your hands a little lower?”

My eyes drop to his cock, standing to attention once again. I roll my eyes in mock disgust and can’t help but smile. “You’re insatiable.”

“It’s what you do to me.” He lands a hot, heavy kiss on my lips and curls one arm around my waist whilst his other hand slides across my stomach and glides down to cup in between my legs. He dips a finger inside me and moans into my mouth. Sparks of desire shoot all over my body and I know I’m ready for him once more.

“You’re drenched and it’s so fucking hot,” he breathes. “Turn around and put your hands on the wall.”

My pulse soars at the instruction and at what’s about to come as I obediently do as I’m told.

“Open your legs.” His hands are on my waist as I shuffle my feet apart and steady myself against the wall as he pulls my backside towards him. Two hands sweep down my back and circle across each buttock before returning to my hips. “You have a spectacular arse. Make sure you keep hold of the wall. I’m going to take you from behind and it’s not going to be gentle.” Alarm shoots through me at the warning but I barely have a moment to register before he slams into me all the way, pushing me forwards and making my hands slide against the wet tiles. “Keep hold of the wall.”

He pauses as I reposition my hands, then he pulls out and slams into me once more, muttering expletives under his breath. His right hand reaches round my body and between my legs, his thumb on my clitoris as my muscles tighten around him.

“Not yet,” he warns as he sets a rhythm. Rub, thrust, rub, thrust, working me up into a frenzy. On his next thrust, I push backwards with my hips and hear him hiss my name and I match his pace until the delicious tension between my thighs is bordering on painful and I’m not sure I’m going to be able to keep it together. His fingers tense around my hip bones and my wrists are aching from taking my weight, when he says the words I’ve been longing for. “Now, Sophie.”

My cry of delight is drowned out as he roars my name, carrying me through my orgasm with his own, emptying himself inside me once again. I’m dizzy as I reach the top and my legs buckle. I’m caught instantly as his arms swoop round me, keeping me upright. “Easy,” he soothes, holding me to his chest. As our breathing calms, he places a tender kiss on my wet shoulder. “Come on, you need to eat. I don’t want you fainting on me.”

I’m left to pick whatever I want to wear from his wardrobe. Rows and rows of clothes hang neatly from the rails of the brightly lit white room. Designer shirts, suits, jumpers, and jeans are hung by colour or carefully folded on the floor-to-ceiling shelves. I choose an army green t-shirt, like the one he wore on Saturday when he helped me move into the flat. It’s more like a baggy dress on me and covers my bum and knickers, so I don’t feel too exposed. He’s standing in the kitchen behind the whitemarble island, pouring boiling water into two white mugs as I walk barefoot back into the living area. He’s pulled on a black t-shirt and boxers and his hair’s still damp and all over the place. He looks rugged, rather than his usual coiffed self and I fight back the urge to jump him.

“I made you coffee.” He places the mugs onto the circular glass, Scandi-style dining table.

“Thanks.”

“Toast?”

I smile. “Perfect.”

He throws me an easy smile and wanders back into the kitchen. “Make yourself at home.”

As I amble into the living area, I realise I’m still grinning like a demented fool.What the hell has gotten into me?

The shorts and t-shirt I borrowed are folded in a neat pile on the single armchair. He’s obviously tidy and orderly. Theo wouldn’t even pick up his dirty underpants.

My gaze settles on the two framed photos on the white carved fireplace. Other than furniture, there are no personal objects or unnecessary knick-knacks in the room. Curious, I take a closer look.

I pick up the smaller of the two. It’s of a clean-shaven, slightly younger-looking Art, dressed in black gym shorts, his bare muscular chest on show as he poses for the camera. It looks like it’s been taken professionally given the pose and I can’t but smile in amusement at the cheesy grin he’s giving the camera.

“Why do you have a photo of yourself in your living room?”

He glances at the frame in my hand. “Ah… that’s from my mum. The photo was taken at a promo shoot I did years ago, when the gyms first opened. When the chain became nationally recognised, she sent it to me with a note on the back telling me how proud of me she was. The head of the PR campaign thought it would be a good idea to have that photo of me displayed in the foyers of all my gyms. I hated the idea, but it seems to work so…”

It makes sense. If guys walk into the gym and see this photo of Art staring down at them, they’ll want to join because they will think it will make them look like him, and women will want to join because it will make them think they’ll meet guys that look like him.

I put the frame down and turn my focus to the second photo, in an antique style frame. A man with a bald head and dark moustache and a slim lady with a sandy coloured perm stands side by side, with what looks like a teenage Art standing in the middle of them. The Colosseum provides a spectacular back drop. All three of them are smiling at the camera.

“Is this you?”

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