Page 110 of The Thing About My Rival

“Where are we going?”

“Do you have a change of clothes here?”

“Yes. Why?” Oh, shit. I see where he’s heading. “Really?”

“Oh, yes,” he says in a gravelly voice that echoes as we enter the tiled, open showers.

Hooking one arm under my butt, he reaches for the tap with the other hand.

Despite his best efforts to keep us out of the initial spray, the water makes a sudden loud spurt, and splatters us with cold water, making me squeal.

Hugo dips his head and takes my nipple in his mouth through my shirt. “These were already hard, but now…” He groans as he tongues me.

Once the water has settled into a steady stream, he straightens and holds his hand out into it.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking it’s a good temperature for you. It would be thoughtless not to.”

“Very thoughtful, yes, but I don’t need a?—”

Every drop of air shoots from my lungs when he swivels me around and rests my back against the cold tiled wall directly under the showerhead, the water hitting my chest, soaking my shirt and running over my belly to where the two of us meet.

“Are you insane?” I push my soaking hair out of my face with one hand and hold onto his bulging bicep with the other.

“Possibly.” He trickles his fingers over my breasts and my hard, hard nipples. Despite the layers of wet fabric between my skin and his hand, his touch reignites the fire within me. “But I wanted to see what you looked like in a wet T-shirt.”

He grows inside me, hardening again, enlarging, starting to move again. “And it’s very fucking hot.”

I let my head drop back against the wall and give in to it all once more. But this time with warm water cascading over me.

I hook my ankles together behind his back and grip his shoulders, supporting myself between him and the wall.

He leans forward, resting a hand on either side of me against the tiles, and dips his head to lick my breasts through my wet shirt.

I’m floating in space, between Hugo and the wall. It’sthe physical embodiment of his wordswe have each other—I’m trusting him to hold me up, to catch me if I fall.

As he moves in and out, he slides a hand under my butt.

Carefully, gingerly, his fingers drop to the gap between my cheeks.

He lifts his head and our lips are drawn together, water running between our mouths as we drink each other in.

He circles his hips and pants into my mouth as his pinkie finds its way to that precious circle of nerve endings.

“I fucking love you, Wilcox.”

Just the tip of his finger teases my sphincter, shooting flames of desire, distracting my mouth from his kisses so much my head falls back against the tiles again. “Oh, God, Hugo.”

“I know,” he says, circling his hips and his pinkie, bringing us both higher and higher once more. “It’s magic. You are magic.Weare fucking magic.”

And I reach the peak again, am gone again, lost again, coming undone again.

The world disappears as our groans and sighs merge with the sound of the water and rhythmic movement of our bodies.

He’s right. This sensation coursing through my veins, my body, my soul, is so otherworldly that it has to be magic. There’s no other explanation.

He pounds into me, the water rolling between us, soaking us as we soak in each other.

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