Page 23 of Sharing Shane

“Yes, it is.”

She shook her head. “No. It’s Shane’s bed. He’s supposed to have it. I’m supposed to sleep on the couch.”

She started to turn, and he leaped in front of her with a curse. “It’s not Shane’s bed. They brought an extra one.”

Her face wrinkled up in confusion. “Another one?”

“Yep. Different bed. This one’s yours.”

“Oh.” She blinked at him, her eyes hazy, then nodded. “Okay.”

His sigh of relief was short-lived because instead of walking to the side of the bed and sliding between the sheets some intrepid hotel staffer had turned down, she dropped onto the mattress on all fours and began to crawl towards the pillows. And Shane, tired and horny and at the end of his already short rope, watched.

It was fucking torture.

Her shirt rode up to reveal pink panties, boy-shorts that cut away to reveal the curves of her ass, round and soft and jiggling as she crawled her way up the mattress. When it came to women Shane was mostly a breast man, but that ass could make a convert out of him.

“Jesus Christ,” he ground out and clenched his jaw so hard it throbbed in time with his dick.

“What?” Veronica said and turned to look at him. But of course, she didn’t just turn her head. No, she had to turn her entire body so she faced him on her hands and knees, with the deep v of her T-shirt gaping nearly halfway to the bed to give him a clear look at the breasts that had been haunting him all day.

“Jesus Christ,” he repeated and closed his eyes, praying for willpower. “Will you just get in the bed?”

“Well, I was,” she groused, and the blankets rustled as she moved. “Then you said something, and I said “what?”, because that’s what people do, they say “what?” when someone says something they don’t understand, and I don’t know why you’re getting so snarky.”

His eyes popped open and he frowned at her swaying ass. “Snarky?”

“I gave you the bed and everything,” she muttered, finally reaching the pillows. She wiggled and shifted and scooted around, at turns giving him glimpses of tits and ass and sorely testing his willpower and the stitching in the crotch of his jeans.

“This is supposed to be my vacation,” she continued and yanked the covers up to her chin. “I’m going to relax, and eat food, and forget about my cheating ex-boyfriend with vacation sex.”

“Fucking kill me now,” he muttered at the ceiling, then unable to help himself, dropped his gaze to the bed.

She was curled up on her side with her hands tucked under her cheek, sound asleep and snoring. Again.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered again and turned to walk to the bathroom.

He shut the door firmly behind him before flicking on the light. He lifted his bag to the wide marble countertop, dug out his toiletries, and set them in the shower. He yanked the elastic out of his hair to release the low ponytail, then shucked off his clothes. Leaving them in a pile on the floor—surely this fancy-ass resort would have a laundry service—he stepped over to the toilet and emptied his bladder before getting into the shower.

He turned on all the jets, letting out a groan as the crisscrossing sprays hit him. The water was needle-sharp and pounding, the slight sting almost painful. He made himself stand in it until his skin no longer burned, until the bite turned into a caress, reaching beneath the surface of his skin to his muscles, tight and tense from travel and horniness. He stood until the water pounded all the tension out of them, leaving him limp as an overcooked noodle.

Well. Most of him.

He eyed his penis with resignation. He’d gone between half hard and full hard half a dozen times during the day, with brief moments of respite. At the moment he was mostly hard again, thanks to Veronica’s pink panty-covered ass and soft, swaying breasts, and he knew he wasn’t going to get any sleep tonight unless he took care of business.

He started to grab his bottle of plain, serviceable shampoo to facilitate things, then paused. There was a trio of small bottles set on the recessed shelf, their contents a pale pink, and on impulse he picked up the one labeled ‘body wash’. He snapped open the lid and was immediately assailed with the smell of ripe peaches.

“That’ll do,” he decided and squeezed a small dollop into his hand, inhaling the sweet scent. It didn’t have the subtle, musky undertone that it did on her skin, but it was enough. He reached down and stroked his palm over his cock.

Pleasure made him jerk, a groan strangling in his throat. He tightened his grip, dragging his hand from root to tip and back again. He braced a hand on the shower wall, leaning into it as the spray beat down on him and he worked himself in slow, firm strokes with the scent of peaches filling his nostrils and images of Veronica filling his mind.

Soft breasts, round, firm ass. And fuck, those thighs. He wanted to see them spread wide so he could dive face-first into her pussy, then feel them wrapped around his hips as he plunged deep.

He pumped his hips, pushing his dick through his fist, the scent of peaches getting stronger as lather built. His hair hung down to his shoulders, streaming water over his face, down his torso to the fist wrapped around his dick. He closed his eyes as the pleasure spiked, his spine tingling and his muscles tightening, then it burst free in a flood of sensation. A groan ripped from his throat and he opened his eyes, watching his dick jerk in his hand and his come splash against the marble walls while the scent of peaches filled his nose.

He had no idea how long he stood there, letting the water pound at him while he lazily stroked himself, but he was jolted out of his post-orgasmic bliss by a sudden burning in his dick.

“Shit,” he muttered and scrambled for the hand-held shower wand. He’d gotten some soap in his urethra, a just payment for liberties taken, and aimed the shower spray at the head of his penis.

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