Page 129 of Call Me Mrs. Taylor

I give him ten minutes before I make my way upstairs. I undress and enter his bathroom, fighting my way through the steam, ready to sacrifice my silk press if it means making some progress with this man.

Even his silhouette is fine, my God.

I open the door and step in, which he doesn’t react to. Seems like he was expecting me. I move to stand behind him, gingerly wrapping my arms around his waist, resting my face against his back.

He tenses at first, then his body relaxes. When his hands come to rest on top of mine, I close my eyes. I don’t even care that the water is cascading down his back and running across my scalp. This feels nice.

Steam rises around us as I determine that I’m willing to suck his dick in here if I have to. But before I can move around to face him, he pats my hands.

“Pass me the soap from back there.”

I turn around, grabbing the bar off the ledge when I feel his presence behind me. I stop and wait, chilled despite the heat of the steam and the water.

His finger brushes across my lower back, tracing the A, first, then the heart. I close my eyes and smile, knowing I made the right decision there, branding him on me, proving ownership.

His light touch makes goosebumps erupt on my wet skin. When he steps forward and presses his body against mine, I close my eyes and let my head fall back against his chest.

His dick hardens and presses against me, but I don’t think he’s there, at least not mentally. He’s still tracing my tattoo, seemingly in his own world.

When he finally breaks the silence, he says the words I’ve been waiting to hear for what seems like my whole life.

“I love you.”

My eyes fly open.

“I don’t understandwhy, though.”

His voice sounds so pained, I can’t even bask in the glow of triumph. I frown at the back wall of the shower as he exhales loudly, bringing his hands to my waist.

“What the fuck did you do to me?” he rasps against my ear.

I’m wet all over, but especially down below. Not that it matters. Doesn’t seem like he’s interested. And if that’s the case, I wish he’d stop talking to me like this. It’s making me crazy.

His lips graze my ear again, then trail a path down the side of my neck. I stifle a moan, gripping the soap so hard, it bends beneath my touch.

I want him so bad, it hurts.

It’s a feeling I can’t control, but that doesn’t make me as uncomfortable as it used to. In fact, I’m calm. Relaxed. It’s just yearning I feel, not panic.

“I fuckin’hatethis shit,” he groans against my neck. “I can’t let you go.”

“Then don’t,” I moan.

He nips the skin on the back of my neck, and it’s all I can take. I slip the soap back on the shelf and turn to face him as steam curls around our bodies.

I run my hands up his chest, savoring the solid feel of him against my palms. His muscles flex like he’s fighting a war with himself, so I drag my nails down, teasing, trying to make him lose, watching as his abs clench and his breath hitches.

“Look at me,” I demand, pressing closer, letting my nipples brush against his wet skin. He obliges, bringing his sad eyes to mine. Water drenches my face as I blink up at him through wet lashes.

“Don’t let me go, Ace.Please.”

His eyes are dark, wild, and filled with a hunger I can practically taste. When I reach between us, wrapping my hand around the thick, hard length of him, his entire body jolts like I shocked him with electricity.

“Fuck,” he hisses, his head falling back against the shower wall. His hands fall to my hips, gripping tight, digging into my flesh as the war rages on.

I stroke him slowly, feeling him pulse against my palm, loving the low, rumbling growl in his throat. It’s so desperate and needy, it sends a shiver up my spine.

He’s gonna fold. I can feel it. I can see it. The white flag is right there, he just has to wave it. One wave, and I’ll be on my knees gagging on him.

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