Page 39 of Contingently Yours
Hmm. So he wants it quick, huh? Quick and dirty, perhaps? Is that his style?
Bringing the bar to his chest, I bite my lip when I feel him flinch. The vein in his neck pulses like a big juicy target, a siren’s call in physical form. So, I scrub in circular motions across his pecs, clumsily rubbing the bar over each of his nipples as I watch.
One of his hands goes to the wall, and he inches forward, letting out a puff of breath. Confirmed—Lucas likes nipple action. That vein in his neck is getting bigger from the way his breathing has become so erratic already.
Crap. He’s not a premature ejaculator, is he?
We only need to sell that we’re a happy couple enjoying a shower, not porn. I’d better slow it down.
Grabbing his other hand, I slap the bar into his palm. “Get my back for me, babe?” I ask sweetly, with enough volume that even the fish in the bay can probably hear me.
Fuming, his shoulders tense. That’s what you fucking get for ignoring and lying to me, I want to tell him as I turn around and lean my head back, letting the water sluice over my hair.
I start massaging my scalp, so we still lookshowerificin case the guys catch sight of us. He won’t do it. He’s too chicken. He’d better at least be soaping himself up so he doesn’t look like a Freshman on his first day in a locker room.
Something waxy and wet touches my shoulder blade. It’s rectangular and hard. There’s barely any force behind it, but I know it’s the soap. I let out a quiet snort, impressed. It’s probably more of that stubbornness he’s been living with these past few days, him trying to fly on my level of cool, calm, and collected. The bar moves slowly across my back, and then I feel something else.
Lucas’ hand.
My smug smile falters at the touch. It’s beefy and warm, flattened against my wet flesh. It glides over my shoulders with a hint of pressure, almost like a massage, spreading the sudsy water across my skin. Lucas is washing me…with his bare hands.
My mouth is suddenly dry for some reason, and my heartbeat feels quicker than its usual rhythm. As his hands move lower to the middle of my back and make slow sweeps over the edges ofmy ribcage, my abs go taut. My abs and then…lower. Everything seems to be tightening. The air feels thicker, too.
I don’t have to look down to know Andrew Junior is starting to stand at attention. That’s twice now. I thought maybe last time had to do with some kind of power kink I didn’t know I had when I was trying to get Lucas to admit he wanted me to make him come. Except, he really doesn’t have to be washing my back right now. Definitely not with his bare hands. Slowly. Adoringly. Curious. It feels like he’s making a map, studying me more closely than any romp I’ve ever had, and I’ve certainly had my share.
And the thing about mouth-breathing…you can feel that shit on your skin when it’s wet. He’s panting heavily behind me, like he’s in a trance over the lines of my body. What will he do when he runs out of back?
He hesitates at my hips and then starts a slow trek back up, his fingers softly kneading the flesh as they go. I shudder like I’m as wanton as he is, and shit, maybe I am. Terry is never going to find out about this if I have any say in it, but hell, I’m starting to see why he and Shaw are such sluts for each other.
Shifting my gaze, I catch a glimpse of the Hepperlys. They’re all in the same state of undress as we are. Keenan is lathering up Mason’s back while Mason and Dario are grinning, laughing over something. But Dario’s just scrubbing the water across his own chest. It’s definitely more PG-rated over there than here. Regardless, it’s doing nothing for me. They’re all singularly attractive in their own way. Three good-looking men. I can easily admit that. But I don’t want their hands on me the way Lucas’ are right now. It doesn’t make a bit of sense, considering I never thought I’d want Lucas’ hands on me, period.
Maybe it’s so fascinating to me because I know these hands have gone to war, can whittle the most intricate little knick-knacks out of driftwood, and know how to fix boats, fish, andbraid little girls’ hair. They can do all those wholesome, noble things, and yet, right now, they’re choosing to caress my body.Me—averynot wholesome, not noble man.
When he reaches my waist again, I know this strange blip in time is nearly up. Feeling greedy, I reach back and slide his hand around to my stomach, curious how he’ll treat my front or if his pampering of my back was just a fluke.
His flattened palm stays frozen just above my belly button. Another gust of air hits my spine just below my neck. This time it’s thicker, with more force behind it. I’m holding my breath—something I don’t remember doing from someone’s touch since I was a teenager, first discovering sex. His thumb moves first, shifting slowly upward. And then his palm makes a slow circle over my stomach, spreading wildfire through my insides.
Jesus. It’s like he has magic hands. Big, magic, country-boy hands that have me going harder than I’ve ever been in my life. When his fingers graze the sensitive flesh just above my cock, my dick bobs in the air like it knows he’s close and is begging for him to move his hand lower. He doesn’t, though. He freezes, like maybe he felt the vibration.
Shit. He’ll probably turn around and act like a mannequin the way he does in bed every morning when my hand wanders over to his side. I need to know, though. Need to know what effect his touching me has on him. Because…well, because I just do.
Reaching back, I find his hip and pull him closer. A warm piece of flesh pokes the back of my thigh. It’s thick and veiny. The statue.
“You… you’re good,” he blurts, pulling away. “You’re done.”
I feel the bar of soap slap into my palm. I turn around and find him leaning against the shower stall, both hands on the wall, head down. His back is rising and falling.
It’s the most erotic statement I’ve ever witnessed, a piece of modern art, a conversation piece. Anyone standing arounda gallery viewing his pose would be whispering,‘Lucas likes touching him.’ I shudder so hard, my knees nearly buckle.
I think I used to hate him because, while physically he portrayed this big, tough image on the outside, he always looked kind of pathetic. Like a man who never got what he wanted, nor knew how to. Fuck me three ways to Sunday for discovering that is somehow a turn on for me now. He made me feel ashamed that I always get what I want, like it somehow meant I hadn’t earned it because I didn’t suffer in silence like him.
I refuse to feel ashamed, though, for not being such a pushover that I’d pay for a wedding that never happened and pretend to chum it up with an ex-best friend who stole my girl. I refuse to feel bad that I don’t have the kind of relationship with my family that involves braiding anyone’s hair. And right now, as I catch the way his eyes are pinched shut tight—the way his lungs are expanding like he’s willing his cock to stand down—I refuse to neglect the other superpower that life granted me. Idoalways get what I want. Like hell I’m stopping now. It doesn’t matter that what I happen to want this time is a first for me.
Stepping up flush behind him, I reach underneath his arms and press the bar of soap to his stomach. It flexes underneath my touch when I scrub it in a circle to form a lather.
“No. I’m not done,” I whisper at the back of his ear. “I missed a few spots.”
When I feel a good froth of bubbles, I lower a hand to his happy trail and run my fingers through the wet hair there. It’s a foreign sensation, but it’s familiar too. It might not be a woman’s smooth navel, but it’s taut flesh that’s registering the desire I’ve stoked there with my touch.
