Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 77051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
The sounds she’s making fill the bathroom, and completely turn me on. I keep fucking her mouth, no longer thinking about anything but this moment. This want that’s running through my system. I gaze down at her, my mind focusing on just her.
Fuck, she’s perfect. And she sucks my cock like a fucking goddess.
“That’s it, River. You’re going to make me come so hard. So fucking good. Fuck, River. What are you doing to me?” I keep thrusting my hips, my balls tightening as my orgasm looms.
She keeps going.
“You look so good sucking my dick deep down your throat. Your mouth is so fucking hot.” Another thrust and I’ll be there. “Fuck, I want you to swallow me down.” I keep pushing, my grip on her hair tightening in my grasp. “Take this dick. It’s yours.” And then I lose it.
I can’t stop coming. I can’t stop filling her mouth up with my seed. I keep going, and she keeps sucking me, swallowing me, encouraging me to keep giving her everything I have.
As soon as I’m done, I lift her up, holding her close to my body. The next few minutes I run the loofah over her body. I memorize every single inch of her. I wash her hair, and she moans as I do.
“I love your hands on me,” she whispers as I wash the last of the shampoo out of her hair.
“Well, you know I love putting my hands on you.”
I continue washing her as she lets me.
Steam curls around us, fogging the glass and turning the world into a soft halo. She tips her head back into the spray while my fingers comb through her hair, slow and careful, until the water runs clear. I rinse her shoulders, her throat, the nape of her neck—pressing a kiss there just because I can. She shivers, and the sound she makes lives somewhere I’m never getting back from.
“Turn,” I murmur.
She does, palms braced on the tile. I run the loofah down her back in long, even strokes, as gentle as I know how to be. She relaxes one vertebrae at a time, breath deepening, trust settling over us like the steam. I’m not rushing this. I won’t. There’s a kind of worship in doing small things right.
“You’re spoiling me,” she says, voice drowsy.
“Good,” I answer. “I plan on making it a habit.”
She laughs, and turns back to me, sliding her arms around my neck. For a moment we just breathe each other in. No ghosts. No masks. Just warmth and water and the quiet knowledge that neither of us wants to be anywhere else.
I soap my own hair one-handed while she sketches lazy patterns over my shoulders, then her fingers join mine to rinse. We trade small, ridiculous kisses between the spray.
“Five more minutes,” she bargains.
“At least,” I say, because I’m weak for her and that’s not changing.
When we finally step out, I wrap her in a towel first, rubbing her arms until goosebumps give up and the pink returns to her skin. She steals my towel and musses my hair like I’m not trying to look like a functional adult in twenty minutes.
“You look indecent,” she says, smiling.
“Your fault,” I say, not even pretending otherwise.
We move around each other in the small bathroom like we’ve practiced for years. I hand her my comb, and she passes me her moisturizer. She dots some across my cheekbones with solemn concentration and I hold still like it’s a ceremony.
“This is wildly unfair,” I tell the mirror. “You’re going to show up to work glowing and I’m going to look like a man who barely survived a thunderstorm.”
She leans up and kisses my jaw. “You’re going to look like a man who’s very, very kissed. Which is my favorite look on you.”
I make coffee while she pulls on a sweater and jeans. The safehouse smells like dark roast and clean skin. I lay out two mugs, add the sugar the way she likes without thinking. She notices and gives me a look that lands center mass.
“Thank you,” she says, honest and simple.
“Anytime.”
We eat toast over the sink like heathens, grinning when crumbs go everywhere. She snags my phone to queue music—something low and bright—and hums while she ties her shoes. I shoulder my hoodie, check the time, then check the cameras. Everything reads clean, green across the board.
On the way to the door, she stops, fingers catching in the drawstring of my hoodie. “Before we go play normal at work… I need to ask you something.”
“Anything.”
“Do you really think it’s Tasha?” Her voice is steady, but I can hear the hairline cracks.
I don’t look away. “I think we’re close to proving it. I also think Regent is the one tightening the screws. Tasha may be a conduit. Or worse. We’ll know soon.”
She exhales. “Okay.”