Wind Therapy - A.J. Downey Page 0,21
how to use it. Gentle rainfall started from what I assumed was a vent in the ceiling and fell into the tub.
I felt my mouth drop open in surprise.
“Want to try it out with me?” he asked softly.
It took me a second to realize what he was asking, but I was surprised that the answer was yes… I really would like to shower with him. It would be a pleasant introduction to his body.
There was a single window in the bathroom that faced out over the front yard. It was the old-fashioned kind that you lifted, but rather than clear glass, this was frosted and pebbled, allowing light in, but also keeping unwanted eyes out.
Maverick touched another button or two on the touch screen and music started—easy listening old 70s rock ballads. I knew the song, but I didn’t know the name of it or the band who played it.
He stepped up to my back, edging into my personal space and I kept my arms down to my sides, unsure what he wanted.
He was easily six foot to my five foot four, his lips hovering just to the top of the back of my head, his breath slightly stirring my hair, his proximity stilling the breath in my lungs.
The reality was better than the countless fantasies I’d had about this very beautiful man doing this very thing as he hooked his long fingers into the collar of his coat and began to undress me.
I let him take the coat, which he dropped into a pile on the floor. His one hand at my hip, drawing me back into him, his other hand sweeping my hair out of the path of his lips which he rested lightly over the jumping pulse in the side of my neck.
“Fast,” he whispered against my skin. “Like a little rabbit’s.”
“Mm.” I gave a throaty little laugh and leaned back against him.
He put his lips against my ear and whispered, “Are you afraid of me, Zaychik?” he asked, and my heart skipped a beat at the language I didn’t know.
“What is that?” I asked, pulse thumping so hard I could feel it throbbing against my own spine from the inside.
“Zaychik?” he asked.
“That, too, but the language,” I said, voice raspy with desire as he slipped the hand at my waist beneath the hem of my shirt, fingertips light and gentle, the barest kiss of a touch against my skin at my stomach. I wanted to know it all, everything about this man.
“It’s Slavic,” he said. “For ‘little rabbit.’ Do you like it?” he asked and leaned back slightly, switching sides, his other hand sliding against my ribs, over my shirt. I closed my eyes, heartbeat echoing in my ears, breath squeezing out of my lungs at his tantalizing touch.
God, girl! He is playing you like a fucking violin! I thought to myself, and just on the heels of that thought? Just like you want him to.
I wanted to feel good, and the promise in his touch to do just that almost made me let my guard down for real.
The hand that rested over my shirt slid down my front and dipped below the waistband of my jeans. I’d been about to answer him, that yes, I liked the sound of that, but my brain short-circuited as he buried his nose in my hair and breathed me in deep. One hand going low, the other, under my shirt, rising to cup my breast and pinching my nipple through my bra.
I found my own hands at my belt, undoing it, unfastening my jeans for him, lowering the zipper to give him better access.
He hummed against my ear in satisfaction, his fingertips touching my sex with a light little electric jolt, a single long digit sliding against my clit, dipping between my folds to find the wetness of my arousal there.
He moved his other hand across my body to my other breast, his arm across my body, pulling me tightly back against him as he played with my pussy. His touch was light, teasing, so sexy and stimulating. I threw my head back and gasped as my excitement mounted and he turned his head, capturing my mouth with his own, tongue plunging past my lips even as his hold on me tightened. The pressure from his fingers against my pussy increased, and he began to rub at my clit with fervor.
I cried out and twitched against him, the sound from my mouth muffled by his kiss as he held