Page 43 of Elixir of Strife
“You could be an underwear model,” I told him, just before I realized it was a mistake.
“I know,” he replied, one eyebrow raised, as if offended that I ever had any doubt.
“Wow, look who’s suddenly very cocky again.”
His lips drew back, a derisive, dominant sneer, his strong, rough hands closing around my waist. “I know.”
The confidence, that intoxicating arrogance, it was all rushing back into his body, like the heat of the water was bringing the most aggressive, most entitled parts of him back to life. I did often like how Max would take the lead, take control. How he would take what he wanted, pin me down, spread me open, fill me.
I liked that a lot, actually. It was nice to give in sometimes. Okay, often. His hands took over for me, lathering my skin, rubbing the soreness out of my muscles, cleansing and anointing me with the perfect silky-wet roughness of his touch. A soapy hand dipped down the small of my back, probed at the crack of my ass. I gasped.
“You ready to take this cock?” he asked, matter of fact, a mere formality. Because he already knew the answer.
“Please,” I whimpered. “Fuck, yes. Please.”
He chuckled, hand still maddeningly resting on the curve of my ass. “Not yet.”
Max leaned in and kissed me like I was something to consume, to devour. To take into himself, bit by bit, every deep press of his mouth, the long and luscious sweeps of his tongue, the sharp inhalation of breath through his nose as his lips refused to part from mine.
His hand gripped the back of my head in place, perfectly poised so he could enjoy me the way he enjoyed his favorite dish, his favorite fruit. Good thing he couldn’t run out of me. I was more than fucking happy to offer a lifetime supply.
The shower knob squeaked. The water stopped. I would have swooned heavily backward if not for Max’s support. The water was so nice that I must have been leaning into it without even realizing. He grabbed me, chuckled softly, then reached for a towel. I stared at him in confusion, and then in irritation when he dragged the towel across my face.
“What the — what’s going on? Are we done? But we haven’t — ”
His finger pressed against my lips. That almost made me angrier, but Max was quick to explain himself.
“Can’t fuck in here. Slippery and dangerous. I mean, I want to rail you to death, but not literally.”
“But,” I protested, pawing at his torso. “Can’t wait. Want more. Want it now.”
“Oh, you’re going to get it.”
We barely made it out of the shower stall, both dripping wet, desperately wiping just enough so we wouldn’t make puddles and slip to our deaths instead. Max grabbed handfuls of my still-damp hair, kissing me hard as we stumbled out of the bathroom, the bedroom barely a dozen feet away.
But the dresser was closer. He guided me there, breaking the kiss at last, twisting me roughly around, bending me over the surface. I planted my hands there, ass raised and exposed for the taking. I studied myself in the mirror, red from the hot water, from the excitement, hair stuck to my forehead in wet swirls.
I saw Max reflected there, too, his eyes boring holes through my body as he stared at my ass, slid his cock between my cheeks, slapped one for good measure. I cried out at the stinging sensation, loving it, craving more of him, more of his touch, his cock.
A drawer slid open. Max rummaged for a moment, uncapping something I couldn’t see. He rubbed his hands together. Something warm and wet dribbled down the very base of my back, down into my ass crack. A finger slipped in, probing me the way he knew I liked, gentle at first, then stronger, harder.
The finger went away, replaced by something bigger. Thicker. Harder. Max slid his cock in — all the way in — chuckling under his breath as he entered me to the hilt. The hair at his crotch, still damp, feathered at my ass as he plumbed his cock deeper, faster, one hand on my hip, the other digging fingers into my shoulder like talons.
In the mirror, Max’s reflection groaned, his eyes rolling into the back of his head as he built to a steady, almost violent rhythm. In the mirror, he licked his lips, swiped his hand across his mouth, anything to keep him from drooling on my back. Wetness dripped there anyway, from the ends of his hair, from the point of his chin.
“Oh, fuck,” I gasped, my nails digging into the dresser as I watched him enter me, take me, again and again.
I’d never seen Max as he fucked me. His arms were taut from gripping me tight, like an object, yet delicately enough to remind me I was something he cherished. A favorite toy, and at once a favorite playmate. The muscles in his torso rippled as he thrust back and forth, in and out, teeth gleaming as he leered at me, at his reflection.
He removed his hand from my hip, raised that arm. He flexed fully into the mirror, his bicep bulging obscenely as he admired himself, indulged in the perfection of his physical form and performance even as he brought me to the brink with every last one of his full, penetrative strokes.
Max grinned like he knew what I was thinking, how much I enjoyed the view. “You like what you see?” he asked, bicep still curled, never missing a beat. The dresser clattered with every pump of his hips.
“Always did,” I gasped. “Fucking love it.”
I reached a hand behind me, feeling for his torso, his stomach, his godlike body, his muscles like components in a well-oiled machine made for fucking. I didn’t know if the moisture on his skin was water from the shower, or new, fresh sweat.
Max grabbed that hand, locked it against my back, restraining me, telling me without words that he wanted to have his way with me. I moaned against the mirror, barely balancing myself with one hand. He bent in close, breath hot against my ear, torso like a living statue against my back.
