Page 59 of Chips & Checks
“I missed you,” Bowen murmurs against my lips between kisses,
I laugh and turn my head away, even as his hand slides between my legs. I’m still wearing everything but my shoes, and even so, I’m already a quivering mess with an ache between my legs that only his touch can satisfy. “We’ve barely been apart. I think you brought me here under false pretenses.”
“What can I say? I’m greedy.” He grinds his rising erection against my thigh.
“So I see.” As if I’m not just as desperate.
“I have an idea. If you want to try something different.”
I freeze up.Please don’t ask me to go down on you.If he does, what the hell am I going to say? Is it weird to refuse? It’s not like I have an alternate suggestion. How am I going to get out of this?
“Want to see what my shower can do?”
Oh, nowthatI can get behind. Except… “You know that most home injuries happen in the bathroom?”
“Afraid you’ll slip? Don’t worry. I’ve got you.” He plucks at the buttons of my shirt, undoing them one by one. “If we cloned you, I could lift Violet One and Violet Two at the same time.” He waggles his eyebrows as I giggle.
I’ve never had sex in the shower before, and I’m genuinely worried about the slipperiness of it all. I don’t expect Bowen to sink on one knee andsoapme all over. At first, I feel ridiculous, but under the hot water and the gentle caress of his hands, I start to relax. The tension I’ve been holding onto leaves me. I whimper and lean into Bowen’s touch, earning an amused chuckle from him.
His laugh is low and warm, bouncing off the tile walls like a song only I get to hear. When I tilt my face up, eyes fluttering closed beneath the spray, his fingers shift from my waist to the crown of my head.
“Hang on,” he murmurs, voice rough with something that doesn’t feel like lust at all. He reaches behind him for a bottle and pumps a dollop of shampoo into his palm. “Let me.”
And then—
Oh.
His fingers slide into my hair, slow and sure, massaging the shampoo into a rich lather. He works from scalp to ends, gentlebut firm, like he’s done this a hundred times. Like washing my hair is something sacred. I brace a hand against the tile, trying not to melt right through the floor. My entire body is jelly. Worshipped. Cherished.
I bite my lip, but a sigh escapes anyway. He hears it. I feel him hear it.
“Still worried about slipping?” he teases.
“Yes,” I breathe. “But not from the water.”
He hums and tips my chin up so the water can rinse away the suds. Then his hands return—this time, just holding me.
And in that moment, I realize something terrifying.
I don’t want him to let go.
“Does that feel good?” he asks.
“Mm-hmm.” I arch my back against the water.
“It’s about to get better.” Bowen pulls the shower head free of its arm and rinses me down. When the shampoo is all gone, he turns me around so that my back is pressed to his chest and runs the head between my legs. The water pressure hits my clit, pulling a gasp from my lungs. My knees wobble precariously. If it weren’t for Bowen’s strong body behind me, I’d probably end up at the bottom of the tub.
“Too much?” Bowen asks.
“No, it’s good, but I need… I need…Fuck!” I squeeze my eyes shut as my orgasm makes the bathroom spin. Bowen holds me until I’m steady again. He turns off the water, towels me dry, and carries me back to bed.
I’m still coming down from the high of my first orgasm when Bowen lays me gently on the mattress, my damp hair fanning across his pillowcase like a crown. He hovers over me for a breathless beat, then kisses me, slow and purposeful. It’s not a kiss that asks or questions. It tells. It promises. His mouth moves over mine with reverence, with heat, with everything I didn’t know I’d been waiting for. His hands follow, gliding overmy body like he’s memorizing it for the first time. He cups my breasts, strokes my hips, skims down my ribs like I’m precious and breakable and wholly his.
By the time he settles between my thighs, I’m aching again. He doesn't rush. His tongue traces lazy, devastating patterns, and his fingers are a study in patience. One slips into me, then two, but it’s not about chasing the next high. It’s about giving. I moan, writhing under him as he coaxes me toward a slow, shimmering madness. Only when I’m trembling again does he sit up and reach for a condom, his expression almost dreamy.
It occurs to me that we’re not fucking. This is lovemaking. He lowers himself over me and guides himself into me, sinking in inch by inch until I can’t take any more. Even then, he rolls his hips, his movements languid.
“You feel so good, Vi,” he whispers. His lips press to the side of my neck.
