“Hmm?”
“Is any of that bread I threw on the floor…well …”
“Yes?”
“Is any of it zucchini?”
“Yes, Simon, there’s zucchini bread.”
Silence once again, but for the water.
“Caroline?”
“Hmm?”
“I didn’t think I could love you more, but I really kind of do.”
“I’m glad, Simon. Now gimme some sugar.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
4:37 p.m., that same day
“IS THAT THE SOAP? Don’t slip on the soap.”
“I won’t slip on the soap.”
“I don’t want you to slip. Be careful.”
“I won’t slip on the soap. Now turn back around and be quiet.”
“Quiet? Not possible, not when you…mmm…and then when you…ooohhh…and then when you—ow, that hurt, Simon. You okay back there?”
“I slipped on the soap.”
I started to turn around to see if he was indeed okay when he suddenly pressed me up against the shower wall, holding my hands flat against the tile. Lips tickled and water sprinkled down my skin and across my shoulders as his body flexed against mine. Thoughts of runaway soap slipped from my mind as he slipped inside me, hard and thick and delicious. My breath left me in a gasp, amplified by the tile walls, made sexy by the water falling, and quickly followed by another gasp as he proceeded to thrust into me, achingly slowly and purposefully, his hands now gripping my hips.
I threw my head backward, turning my face to find the sight of Simon, naked and wet. His brow was furrowed, mouth open as he invaded completely and without apology. I spiraled fast, awareness and clear thought narrowing down to a pinpoint before exploding, wordless words falling out of my mouth and down to the water, circling the drain.
Now that O was back, she didn’t dally. So far, at least, she arrived promptly and without question, shattering the memory of days and weeks and months of waiting and crying, begging and pleading. She’d rewarded me with a steady, constant parade that left me scrambled and silly, boneless and ready for more.
Groaning into my ear, shivering and pulsing, Simon failed to slow his roll. He knew inherently, as I knew, that his girl was good for a few more.
And so, with agonizing dexterity, he planted a wet kiss on my neck, left my body, spun me quickly, and was back inside before I could say, “Hey, where’d you go?”
“Nowhere, Nightie Girl, not anytime soon,” he muttered, roughly grabbing my bottom and lifting me against the wall, using his weight to crush me against the tile, holding me to him and holding me inside. His body flexed while mine flattened, our slippery skin feeling indescribable against each other. How had I stayed away from this man as long as I had? No matter. He was here, inside me, and about to deliver another O parade throughout. I pressed back against him just enough, opening the space between us just enough to gaze down, lust clouding my vision but not so much that I couldn’t see him entering me, over and over again, filling me up like no man ever had.
Now glancing down himself to see what had me so transfixed, he was captivated as well, and a sound rather like “Mmph” left his mouth. His movements sped up, chasing it down, that feeling, that tipping point that felt so close to pain and so close to perfection. Those blue eyes, now filled with lust and fire, flew back up to mine as we both threw ourselves off that cliff again together.
Seizing. Freezing. Locked and unloaded. We came together with a roar and a grunt and a groan that left my throat raw and my hoohah thrilled.
Thrilled hoohah…what a great name for a…Mmmm…
6:41 p.m.
Walking around my apartment in only a towel, dodging flour piles and raisin clumps, Simon was a sight to behold. When he skidded on a patch of marmalade and bumped into the counter, I laughed so hard I had to sit down on the couch. He now stood in front of me with a slice of zucchini bread as I laughed, an amused look on his face. I continued to laugh, and my towel slipped down, revealing more than a little of my assets. At the sight of boobs, two things happened. His eyes popped, and something else popped. Popped out. I raised an eyebrow at this latest development.
“You realize you are turning me into some kind of machine?” he noted, nodding down at his HiThere poking through the towel. Simon took the time to place his zucchini bread safely on the coffee table.
“How cute is that? It’s like he’s poking his head out from behind a curtain!” I clapped my hands.
“You may not be aware, but as a general rule, no man likes the word cute in the same sentence as his junk.”
“But he is cute—uh-oh, where’d he go?”
“He’s shy now. still not cute, but shy.”
“Shy, my ass. He wasn’t so shy in the shower a little bit ago.”
“He needs his ego stroked.”
“Wow.”
“No, really. I think you’ll find he is quite receptive to stroking.”
“Now see, I was thinking maybe he just needed a good tongue lashing, but if you think stroking will suffice…”
“No, no, I think a tongue lashing is quite in order. He—God damn, Caroline!” I leaned in, brought the shy one forth, and immediately surrounded him with my mouth. Feeling him grow harder still, I settled myself on the edge of the couch, wrapped my arms around him and dropped the towel. Pulling him closer, and therefore deeper into me, I hummed in satisfaction as I felt his hands come up into my hair and trace my face. Reverently, he placed his fingers on my eyelids, cheeks, temples, finally burying one hand in my hair and the other, well, wow. He held himself. As I concentrated all my attention on the tip of him, he stroked himself at the base, something that was quite possibly the sexiest thing I’d ever seen. Seeing his hand, wrapped around himself as he moved in and out of my mouth…
oh my.
Sexy isn’t the right word for it. It is inadequate in the face of the pure erotica playing out in front of me. And speaking of in front of me, I hummed again in appreciation, feeling myself getting worked up just at the play my mouth was getting. Lucky mouth.
I fell back against the couch and pulled Simon with me. He responded by using both hands to brace against the back of the couch, thrusting in and out of my mouth with conviction. The angle allowed him to penetrate more deeply, and made it easier for me to take more of him in. I grabbed his backside, feeling the thril of attending to him, knowing it was me, only me, who got to have him in this way.
I could feel him getting close. I was already beginning to know his tells intimately. I wanted him again. I was selfish this way. Releasing him with a final strong pull, I pushed him down on to the couch and straddled him. Feeling me against him, he thrust upward as I sank down, and there was that moment—you know that moment? When everything feels stretched and pulled in the most delicious way? Your body reacts: something that shouldn’t be inside is now inside and for a split second, it’s alien, unknown. And then your skin senses a returning champion, your muscle memory takes over, and then it’s so good, that feeling of full ness, of wonder and awe.
And then you begin to move.
Grabbing his shoulders for leverage, I rolled my hips into his, noticing not for the first time that he’d been intelligently designed with my exact measurements in mind. He fit inside me perfectly, two halves of a whole, some kind of sexual Lego. He sensed it too, I could tell.
He placed his hand flat against my chest, directly on top of my heart. “Stunning,” he whispered as I rode him, sweet and hot. He kept my heart in his hand as I rocked into him, his other hand on my hip, guiding me, positioning me, feeling me attend to us both. He struggled to stay with me, to keep his eyes open as his release rushed in. I took his hand from my heart and placed it further down, where he began to trace those damnable perfect circles.
“Jesus, Simon…oh, God…so…soooo good…I…mmm…”
“I love watching you fall apart,” he groaned, and I did. And he did. And we did.