Page 113 of False Start

I couldn’t speak past the lump in my throat.

He was in me.

That was in me.

On roller skates.

I kind of felt bad for my teammates to be honest…they were totally missing out.

“You get a good look?”

“Yes, and how uncool of you to mention it. Thank you.”

He laughed, took my hand, and helped me balance as I climbed under the hot spray. I tipped my head back, let the water soak into my hair before leaning back farther to let it wash over my face.

When I swayed, disoriented between holding my hand up over my head to keep it out of the spray, tilting my head back, and just plain being wiped out, he was there. His large hands sliding over the wet skin at the curve of my waist, long fingers flexing and curling against me, holding me steady.

I opened my eyes, water dripping from my lashes and running down my cheeks to find him studying me, his expression unreadable, yet unwavering.

Haunted.

Outrunning his past.

Standing right before me, but like he could vanish at any minute.

Spinning me away from him, he smoothed his hand up my one arm while resting my forearm of my injured hand against the wall, keeping it elevated, but giving me support at the same time.

His hands worked through my hair first, the scent of cocoa butter filling the steamy air. The pads of his fingers digging into my scalp sent shivers of pure bliss down my spine.

My senses reeled, everything heightened. The brush of his thighs against mine, his forearms sweeping over my shoulders as he reached for the shelf, his sudsy fingertips grazing over my collarbone…something that already stood out as one of his favorite ways to touch me.

And quickly becoming my favorite way to be touched.

He didn’t grab a washcloth; he completely ignored the loofa hanging from the hook, and instead ran the soap over me, skimming the slippery bar over curves and dipping and swirling it in the valleys.

My head fell back against his shoulder the minute his lips made contact with the back of my neck. His ragged breath filled my ear as his mouth opened and closed over my skin following along the ridge of my shoulder.

Large hands wrapped around me, grazed over my breasts, circled my nipples, his fingertips making impressions in my fevered skin along the way.

A rough groan rumbled from his chest. With his arm still wrapped around me, his hand went straight to my throat, holding me against him, keeping me upright while his cock nestled along the crease of my ass.

His other palm danced over my abdomen and slid between my legs, cupping me, his long fingers tracing over me, dipping inside, swirling, playing—never relenting until my throat strained against the hand locked there, the whimper shimmying up my throat against his palm only making him squeeze tighter as my body spasmed under his unyielding exploration.

Wave after wave, with his erotic whispers of encouragement in my ear, I rode out every last ripple of my orgasm—my body entirely—until my knees finally buckled.

I’d never need another drink.

No drug could match this.

No other man, or woman, had the power to coil me so tight and give me sweet relief in the same moment.

Just this man, his touch, his kiss, his unshakeable dedication.

And every minute only made me more desperate for him to stay.

To be in my circle and be in his.

To live in my heart.

---