The noise I make is one I’ve never made before, an animal sound, low and carnal, sharp with need. The water streams against my sex, making an exquisite sort of torture as James continues to fuck me from behind with long, deep strokes.
“Would you like that, sweetheart? A hard cock buried deep in your cunt and a wet mouth between your legs, sucking on that sweet little clit?”
Picturing two of him making love to me at the same time, I whimper, clenching around his cock.
His voice hardens. “You like that idea.”
“Only if it’s you,” I say breathlessly. “Nobody else but you.”
He slows the motion of his hips. Breathing raggedly at my ear, he says, “You wouldn’t want a threesome with me and another man?”
I don’t have to think twice before vehemently shaking my head.
James’s voice drops another octave. “Good. Because I’d never share you.”
I’ve pleased him with my answer, but it wasn’t my intention. I was only telling the truth. Letting another person into this moment would cheapen it. Besides, no one else could ever do for me what he does.
No other man could so easily and completely make me fall apart.
He shoves the shower head back into its wall holder, grabs my jaw, forces my head up, and kisses me with an almost frightening hunger, his mouth unyielding as it plunders mine.
Then he releases my jaw and begins to rhythmically slap me between my legs.
He fucks me from behind and slaps my pussy, kissing me hard, holding me tight, until I’m moaning into his mouth, desperate for release. Then he stops and cups my throbbing sex, his fingers reverently exploring the place where we’re joined.
If it weren’t for his arm around me, I’d slide bonelessly to the ground.
Panting and shaking, steam billowing all around me, I say his name. It’s a plea, and he knows it. This time he’s willing to give me what I need.
“How do you want it? Cock or mouth?”
“Like this. Inside me. But my knees aren’t working anymore.”
“They don’t have to.”
He slides out of my body and turns me around. His face is intent. His eyes are blazing. He commands, “Wrap your legs around my waist,” and picks me up.
When he pushes my back against the shower wall and grips my bottom in both his hands, I understand that he’s going to fuck me standing up.
He kisses me, his mouth hot against mine. “Help me in,” he pants, bracing his legs apart.
I wrap an arm around the mass of his shoulders and reach between us with my free hand. Then I guide him into where he belongs, until he’s seated fully inside me, his slick chest pressed against mine so tight I feel every pounding beat of his heart.
He starts to fuck me again, his thrusts as hard as his eyes are soft.
Water sprays everywhere. All over our bodies, the ceiling, the tiled walls. Steam curls and billows. The sounds of my helpless moans and his harsh breathing echo around us until I’m dizzy, until I’m so close to orgasm my focus narrows to the brilliant white burn inside me, coiling tighter and tighter, poised to snap.
When I finally do, it’s with a scream and a series of violent, full-body jerks. But James doesn’t stagger. His arms stay strong and his balance holds steady as he continues to relentlessly drive into me through my convulsions until I’m spent.
Then he pulls out, kisses me hard, and groans deeply into my mouth. He releases himself into the swirling steam and hot water, all the while managing to support my weight without faltering. His arms aren’t even shaking. He’s as solid as a redwood’s trunk.
Through the tangled and pleasure-soaked haze of my mind, a single, crystal clear thought emerges:
How can a dying man be so strong?