“Oh,” I say, surprised, though how on earth I am, I don’t have a clue.
He might not have invited me in here for that, but I doubt he has any control over his body’s reaction to me.
God, I hope not.
Wouldn’t that be wonderful?
“Just let me finish bathing you,” he says in response.
It’s the earnest way he speaks, the fact that I know without a shadow of a doubt that he means what he says. He’s not trying to take advantage of me during an emotional time. He’s trying to lean on me, to use me as a rock. I want to comfort him. I want to feel him. All of him.
His hands curve up my stomach and I watch the suds spread across my skin. He climbs higher and his fingers skim the lace on my bra. This time, he doesn’t shy away.
I reach my hand back between our bodies and grip his thigh, slowly moving upward.
He doesn’t move.
Somehow, it’s easier with him behind me. Without having to look at him, I can be as bold as I want to be, moving up even higher to grip his length in my hand, stroking him as my eyes flutter closed and my head leans back against his chest.
A shudder breaks through him and he grinds into me like he can’t help himself.
One arm wraps around my waist, pinning me tighter against him. The other skims across my wet bra, feeling my full breast in his palm. He moves to the other side, brushing across the delicate fabric and using it to torment me. My body writhes, and that’s only doing more for him considering each time my hips shift, I grind against him. His mouth falls to my neck as he drags my wet bra away from my breast, finally baring me.
My eyes pinch closed as his hand covers my nakedness, trailing the warm drops of water across my chest.
A wave of pleasure racks through me and he does it again, starting at my breast, barely touching really, like he’s too scared he’ll hurt me. I’m a fragile piece of art and he’s a curious observer, stepping over the boundary rope so he can touch the frame. His hand skims across my ribs and down the center of my abs. He can feel me shaking, my stomach clenching as he brushes over it, and then he continues down, pushing past the wet material of my panties. Then, lower.
When his hand covers me there, I grip him tighter in my hand, slowly pumping up and down, almost languid in my movements.
A husky groan tickles against the shell of my ear as his middle finger presses inside me. He swirls his hand so the base of his palm hits me in exactly the right spot, sending a delicious tingle up my spine. I speed up as he speeds up, pumping my hand while he slides his finger in and out of me. I writhe, needing more.
Please.
He can hear my plea and a second finger slips in beside the first, stretching me. His thumb joins, circling deftly while his fingers drag in and out. Faster. Harder. A whimper escapes me and it spurs him on. His thumb drives me closer and closer. His fingers push inside, the deepest they’ve been, and hold there as I shake against him, arching my back, crying out so that the sound reverberates around the tiled shower.
My pleasure feeds his. My hand moves on him quickly and I can feel the hot wetness coat my back as he groans deeply, guttural sounds of pleasure reverberating through him as he keeps his fingers buried inside me.
We stay like that until our breaths even out, until my spent body can muster up just enough energy to reach up and stroke his cheek, comforting him.
It’s in this moment, before we break apart and clean ourselves off, before we step out of the shower and re-enter the world, that he leans down and presses a firm kiss against my mouth, whispering a truth along with it. “I’m falling for you.”
Chapter Seventeen
Derek
Whitney doesn’t say a word as we step out of the shower and towel off. I think she might be in shock. If I waved my hand in front of her face, I doubt she’d react. Her green eyes are vacant, focused on the ground as she blinks, lost.
It’s not as if I can go back and rescind what I said.
It’s the truth.
Though now I see I might have considered waiting to