Page 56 of Forty

“You don’t need to know.”

“If we’re going somewhere, I’ll know where we are when we get there,” I point out around a jaw-cracking yawn.

“Can’t hear you.”

I flush, wash my hands, and wipe steam off the mirror. I don’t look so good. A shower would be nice. Doesn’t sound like that’s part of Forty’s mystery plan.

Screw that.

I unbutton the shirt I slept in and let it drop to the floor. That’ll drive him nuts. Then I slide open the shower door and step in.

Forty turns to me, suds in his hair, eyes round with shock. And then they rake down my front.

My nipples pebble. Spray from the stream hitting Forty dampens my skin.

I try to act cool, like it’s nothing, like I hop in showers with guys all the time, but I really don’t. And Forty? He’s not any guy. He’s huge, filling up the space with his broad shoulders. The water sluices off his chiseled pecs, his muscles rippling as he squares his shoulders and stiffens into his soldier’s stance. It turns me breathless and awkward.

I grab a bar of soap, and it squirts from my hand.

I’m not bending over for it. It’s all the way by the drain. Between Forty’s legs. Under his hard, veiny cock. That’s pointing at me.

“Here.” He grabs my hand and rotates me so I’m under the showerhead. Hot water chases away my shivers. I stoop and swipe up the soap.

Forty’s hair is rinsed, now. He seems finished, but he’s not stepping out.

“You can go. I’ll be quick.” I soap up my hands. His gaze is traveling, roaming all over me. My tits. My pussy. Down my legs to my chipped, pink toenails. Up to my face. My body heats.

It’s a weird time to get bashful, but I’m a weird girl.

“I can manage on my own.” I jerk my chin toward the shower door.

Forty grabs his cock, strokes it slowly.

“Okay. Let me see you,” he says.

“See me what?”

“Manage it on your own.”

My breath catches. I don’t know how I got here. I just woke up. I haven’t had my coffee. I leapt before looking. Again.

“We need to roll out in seventeen minutes. Come on, Nevaeh.” He snaps. “Time’s wasting.”

A throb starts between my legs. I run my soapy hands down my arms. Then I cup my tits, slide my slippery palms over my aching nipples. His breath quickens.

“Put your foot up on the side,” he orders. His strokes are firmer now. And his gaze is focused between my legs.

I do what he asks. My pussy opens for him.

“Spread the lips. Show me your clit.”

I use my fingers to open myself up. My clit pops from the hood. I graze it with the pad of my thumb, and shivers shoot up my belly. I whimper. Forty falls to his knees, his shoulders bracing me wide, his head delving between my legs.

And then his mouth is on me, sucking my clit, his tongue teasing, lapping, and I buck forward, chasing what I want. He isn’t having it. He grabs my hips, pins me in place, and then he sucks my clit again, breaking only to circle it with the point of his tongue and blow hot breath over it.

He’s learned a few things. I hate the thought, but I love his mouth and the way he’s working me, so intent. I love his grip, firm and unyielding. He’s doing what he wants to me, and I want him to.

An orgasm is coiling in my belly, tighter and tighter, and I’m sweating as the hot water pounds my back. I dig my fingers into his hard muscles.

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