Calendar Boy (The Cougar Chronicles 2)

He pulled her into his body, and she rubbed her breasts against his muscled torso. His black chest hair tickled her nipples, and she couldn’t help the small sigh that escaped her throat. So hard and masculine, he was, and so handsome and sexy. She pressed her cheek against his beefy shoulder and closed her eyes. Smooth strokes caressed her back, glided downward over the globes of her ass cheeks, slid between her legs. Her mound sprang to life.

“Hmm. You wet from the shower?” Michael teased, “or for me?

She grinned into his hard shoulder. “For you, of course.”

“Then we need to do something about that. Luckily, I came prepared.” He picked up a condom from the soapdish. “Now, kiss me.”

His lips crushed to hers.

The kiss was anything but gentle. He forced her lips open and thrust his tongue inside. His groan vibrated against the inside of her mouth. It was a hungry kiss, a kiss of the passion that sizzled between them.

Stacy opened to him, let her tongue duel with his. His hands coasted down her arms, and the faint ripple of a foil packet breached the haze of her thoughts.

“Turn around, baby.”

She obeyed, and he gripped her hips and slowly slid into her. Lord, what a sweet invasion! Ripe and juicy, her slick passage welcomed him.

Slowly, gently, so unlike the kiss they had just shared, he made love to her.

“You feel so good, Stace.” He pistoned his hips, caressed her ass. “So good.”

“Yes, so good,” she echoed.

One strong hand slid over her hip, fingers entwined in her nest of curls and found her hard nub. He rubbed it in smooth circles, in time with his rhythmic thrusts into her, and the crescendo built.

Stacy closed her eyes, savored the warm rain on her face, her shoulders, her breasts.

Talented hands played her clit, the pressure growing, ascending, until a curtain opened over the last vestiges of her control. Michael pumped and pumped, rocking her hips.

“Yes, yes!” The dam burst, and her body shook. Her wet hands slipped from their grip on the shower wall, but Michael steadied her, continued to plunge into her as her whole torso seemed to spasm around him. Silver sparks shot through her arms and legs, yet still he held her stable, his strength her protective fort.

“That’s it, baby.” He rocked in time with the euphoric convulsions inside her. “Make it last. Come for me.”

Again and again her body imploded upon itself, her skin alternately heated and cooled. The warm rain from the shower intensified the sensations, and the heady splashes of water accompanied each thrust of Michael’s cock.

“Yeah, baby, that’s it,” he said again. “God, baby, I’m going to come!”

His thrusts quickened, and he let out a groan as he plunged even farther into her. His contractions pounded against her sensitive walls, and her heart sped with the knowledge that he was feeling what she was feeling—wild, free, and sexual.

His chin poked into her shoulder, and his breath blew the droplets from her neck. Still the water pelted them, and still their bodies were joined. They stood for a few timeless moments, and peace—pure peace—blanketed Stacy’s body and mind.

“That was wonderful.” Michael’s voice brought reality.

“Yes, it was,” she agreed.

Michael withdrew and turned Stacy to face him. He threaded his fingers through her sopping hair. “I love your hair,” he said. “Could I wash it?”

Wash her hair? What a turn on. She wasn’t sure why, but the thought of those strong hands on her scalp enthralled her. “Sure. If I can wash yours.”

“Deal.” He smiled and picked up the small bottle of hotel shampoo in the corner of the shower. He lathered some in his palm and spread it over Stacy’s head.

Since when had shampooing become such an erotic art? Michael’s fingers worked magic on her head. She closed her eyes and enjoyed. When he thought he got soap in her eye, he apologized profusely. She laughed and told him not to worry, that she was fine. He continued his massage, and when he finished, he tilted her head back and rinsed her, threading the soap through the ends of her hair until it all disappeared down the drain.

She traded places with him and squirted a quarter-size puddle of shampoo into her palm. His hair hung in dark waves and clung to his cheeks and neck. Gorgeous thick Italian hair, and she couldn’t wait to work her fingers into it. It was as soft and silky as she’d imagined, and she gently scrubbed his tresses and worked the soap through the ends.

Like her, he shut his eyes and leaned back. He was so tall she had to reach to get the top of his scalp, but she stretched gladly, wanting to give him the same attention he’d given her.

“Okay, you can rinse now,” she said.