Page 47 of Gilded Saint

“This is what you want?”

She nods. Maybe she speaks. The shower roars. Too loud to hear, to think.

“Spread your legs.”

She does as I command. I drag my tip between her ass cheeks and bend my knees for a lower swipe.

“Flatten your back. Stick out your ass.”

She does as commanded, and her movement shifts my tip to where I need to be. I grip her hips and surge forward. She’s tight, wet, hot velvet.

“Oh, fuck, you feel good.”

I slam into her, over and over. She feels better wrapped around my cock than I ever fucking imagined.

My balls tighten. Same with my lower back. I force myself to slow and reach around, searching for those dark curls, for her mound, for her clit. My fingers circle and pulse. The position is awkward, and I’m not as deep as I want to be, but her walls clench around me and she moans.

“That’s it,” I tell her. “How do you like it? Soft like this? Firm pressure? Or do you like it like a hammer?” I piston my fingers and she moans, pushing against me, her pussy tightening around me in a vice.

Guess she answered me. I still behind her, reveling as her body comes undone. Her knees give, and I pull out and lift her.

“Wrap your legs around me.” Her eyelids flutter, and I lift her higher so her thighs hug my hips. She tilts her head back, and for some ungodly reason, my lips find hers again.

Bad decision.

It’s too much. Too intimate.

I stumble until her back flattens against the wall of the shower.

I shouldn’t.

The thought flees. I kiss her like a man possessed. Plundering her sweet mouth, savoring honey and mint and vice. Her nails scratch my back and the nape of my neck.

I break our kiss, needing oxygen, and needing more. “Hold on.”

Her arms rise over my shoulders, and she presses down as her legs dig into my hips. With one hand on her ass, and one on my dick, I find her entrance and slide back into her heat.

“Jesus.” It’s all I can say in this heaven.

My muscles strain as I lift her and position her just right on the wall. Her tight channel grips me, so fucking right. Water cascades around us as I pound into her. She convulses around me, milking me for all I’m worth, and I explode, pulsing so hard inside her my legs weaken and I stumble to the ground.

We crash in a tangle of limbs on the floor of the shower. I rest my back against the shower wall, settling her against me, and press a kiss to the top of her head. My hand wraps around her front, and I fondle her breast. I daydreamed about tasting these breasts, and I didn’t even touch them.

She bends her neck, looking up at me, and I press my lips over hers. She smiles, and her fingers tenderly trace my jaw. “There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

I laugh. A full-throttled laugh. I don’t know where it’s coming from. Possibly I’ve been way too sexually frustrated, or possibly it’s the ludicrousness of the situation. Me, on the floor of the shower with my twenty-two-year-old fake bride.

I help her off the floor, turn off the shower, and reach for a towel to wrap around her.

“This shower has two showerheads,” I muse. “We could’ve used both of them, I guess.”

“We only needed one.” The coy smile playing across her lips is one that says she won. She turns to leave, but I grab her waist, spin her around, pop her ass playfully, and smack my lips against hers.

“Go to bed,” I tell her.

She clutches the towel and bows her head, but I catch the self-satisfied smile. She steps past the bed, as if she’s leaving my bedroom, and in a flash, I’m in the doorway. “My bed.”

It’s wrong of me. So wrong. But she is the one who entered my shower. And now that we’ve done that once, we’ll definitely be doing it again. If not tonight, in the morning.

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