Page 93 of Never Date A Player
The mud runs down the drain, but the body paint on our faces, necks, and legs is waterproof.
Lewis grabs a green bar of soap and lathers up, watching me the entire time. My gaze follows his wide hands as he runs the soap over his chest, beneath his arms, over the ridges of his stomach, past his huge erection, and down muscled legs. He ducks under the showerhead, letting the water sluice over his wide back and shoulders, then raises his eyebrows as if to say, Your turn.
I give myself a mental shake, because oh my God—this was a bad idea. Why did I think I could watch something like that without going into hormone overload? This is Lewis, the guy who took my frigid ass and set it on fire.
He suds up his palms. “Close your eyes.”
I do as he says and smooth, efficient fingers close over my cheekbones, my neck, my shoulders.
My back goes lax.
“Rinse your face and I’ll get the rest.”
Oh, God, the rest.
Holding my wounded arm out of the water, I stand under the shower nozzle. “That’s good for now,” I say. “I’ll wash again later.” I’m not sure how much more I can stand without plastering myself to him. My plan to get him to crack has backfired.
“You’ve got paint on your arms and legs. It’ll only take a second.” He holds up the bar.
Lewis’s self-control has proven stubbornly resilient. A part of me wants to test it further to see who cracks first, only I’m afraid that will be me. We need to talk, but suddenly this, the physical tension, seems important. Who says we can’t connect in other ways and get to the talking later? There’s no logic in this—I should avoid anything physical at all costs until we’ve hashed things out—but then, I’m not thinking with my brain.
I nod and he starts down my arms, then up my neck. His fingers linger on my collarbone, his eyes catching mine before his wide palms glide over my breasts to the ribs beneath. My lips press together, stifling a moan.
Lewis doesn’t seem to notice. He’s concentrating like he’s painting a masterpiece, or keeping himself contained.
Thank God I’m not the only one.
He lathers more soap and runs his fingers down my legs, bending on one knee. His palms run up my calves, lips taking a moment to gently brush the bandage on my leg. And then his fingers move over the backs of my thighs to my ass.
My eyelids close and I roll my head against the tile, struggling to hold it together. It takes me a second to realize his hands have stopped. When I look down, his face is level with the apex of my legs. He’s breathing heavily, his fingers gripping my skin.
“Gen?” His eyes meet mine. The look on his face is a silent question—Is this okay?
“Yes,” I sigh in answer.
He leans forward and presses his nose right between my thighs. I gasp at the same time he groans.
He pulls my leg up and rests it on his shoulder and I brace my hand against the wall. His lips brush the spot that’s hyperaware of every move he makes, responding with an answering throb.
I can’t believe this is me, here, doing this. I avoided oral sex and now I crave Lewis’s mouth on me.
His wet tongue darts out and licks. I moan and flatten my good hand on his other shoulder while his tongue does some kind of acrobatics that defy logic and have me shaking. He reaches up, cups my breast, and runs the pad of his thumb over my nipple. I buck, my hips grinding against his mouth. I’m moaning, grasping his hair, and so close to orgasm, mini flutters erupt. His finger enters me and I explode, shaking and crying out with release.
Lewis groans and rubs the spot his tongue tortured until the last of the orgasm fades, his mouth trailing up my body. He eases the arm with the broken finger around his neck and lifts my thighs, pressing me into the wall. He kisses me deeply.
I reach down and circle him with my good hand, pulling him to my entrance.
His body tenses. “Fuck, wait—I don’t have…”
“I’m on the pill. But you’ve been tested?”
He doesn’t wait for me to move my hand—he’s inside me, kissing my face, my neck. “Yes.”
After a second, he breaks from the wall with our bodies still connected and carries me to the bed, ignoring the running shower. We fall on the mattress and I gasp at the penetration from this angle.
Lewis pauses as if wanting to make sure I’m okay, and I move my hips, urging him to get a move on.
He sets a steady rhythm, touching my hip, my waist and breasts—everywhere he can reach—like he can’t get enough. I flatten my hand to his chest and run it up the ridges of his shoulder, over his muscular neck to cup the side of his face. He drops his head and kisses me, and all I can think is: This is real love. This is what I’ve been missing.
