Page 65 of Stick Break
I inch the curtain open, steam billowing around me like drama on cue. I step out slowly, giving him a show, knowing exactly what I’m doing and loving the low, wounded growl that follows me through the room. I reach for a towel and cinch it tightly around my chest, but only for effect.
Then I pause.
“Do you think I should start here?” I ask innocently, spreading the towel just enough to slide my thumbs over my nipples. They peak instantly, betraying the cool air and the hot pulse thrumming inside me.
Behind me, there’s silence—charged silence. The kind that hums with all the things he’s not saying. When I glance back, I find him standing there, still under the water, absolutely stricken—jaw slack, eyes dark, cock harder than any human should be capable of.
Poor man looks torn between worship and weeping.
“Or here?” I ask sweetly, sliding one hand down, slower than necessary, until my fingers dip between my thighs and I let out a soft, genuine moan.
He swears. Just one word, but it’s guttural. Maybe I really should be scared, but I think this man is going to wreck me, in more ways than one.
Then the spray cuts off.
I squeal and bolt, laughing as I run toward the bedroom like a thief in the night. My feet slap against the floor, wet and reckless, and I barely make it to the bed before I hear the unmistakable sound of him. Heavy, determined footsteps. Curses. A low growl of impending doom.
Then—
He appears in the doorway, towering, dripping, glorious in nothing but a towel tied at his waist. His body looks carved from stone, every muscle tight with tension, every inch of him thrumming with intent. He’s beautiful and lethal, and my playful smile dies the second our eyes meet.
“Rip…” It’s all I can manage. My throat is dry, my lungs forget how to function.
He crosses the room slowly, deliberately, until he’s standing over me. I crane my neck, eyes wide, every nerve ending buzzing.
“Well,” he says, dragging a hand down the center of his chest like he’s trying to give me a stroke. My gaze follows the path, over hard pectorals, down the ridges of his abs, to the trail that disappears into the towel still slung dangerously low. “What did you decide?”
I blink, struggling to form words. “What?”
He leans closer, the heat of him wrapping around me like a second skin. Then, with a flick of his fingers, he unknots my towel. It drops soundlessly to the bed.
My breath catches as the cool air ghosts over my now-bare skin. His eyes take their time, and when they finally meet mine again, they’re dark, searing, focused like a man on a mission.
“Where did you decide to start?”
I stare up at him, lust-rattled and trembling, as realization dawns like a thunderclap.
And just like that, the game resets.
But this time, he’s in control, and I love it.
Giving him what he’s asking for, a smile curves my lips. “Oh,” I say, a wicked little smile curling on my lips. “I thought I’d start here.”
I shimmy backward to the center of the bed, and settle my shoulders against the headboard. The sheets are cool beneath me, a contrast to the heat pulsing between my thighs. Slowly, deliberately, I bend my knees and let them fall open, baring myself to him. My hand trails down the slope of my stomach, fingers light and teasing as I touch the skin that’s been aching for him all night.
“This,” I murmur, pressing just above my mound, “This is the spot that’s been screaming at me to use our code word.” My eyes flick up to his, dark with hunger and heat, and I give a little breathy laugh. “She’s not subtle.”
He just stares at me, like he’s watching something holy, sacred—and a little dangerous. His eyes are locked on where my fingers move, and I swear he forgets to breathe. I’ve never done this before. Never had the nerve to touch myself in front of anyone. But with Rip, it’s different. He makes me feel powerful and wanted and completely unashamed.
So I keep going, circling, stroking, letting him see everything. A soft moan slips from my lips, and that’s what breaks him. With a sharp inhale, he moves, circling the bed with the grace of a predator who’s done holding himself back. He drops down beside me and the mattress dips under his weight. His presence floods the space, all heat and want and something deeper.
I lean into him, our skin brushing, and his voice drops an octave, all low, masculine gravel.
“You’ve been hurting.” It’s not a question. It’s a knowing, intimate confession wrapped in silk and steel.
I nod, voice shaky. “So bad.”
His eyes flick to mine. “We can’t have that.”
