The First Taste (Slip of the Tongue 2)

She bites her lip. “No.”

“Don’t lie. Wanted me to take you up against the wall. Fuck you like I was the boss, not you. Punish you for how you treated me.”

“And-rew,” she implores, using the same tone that nearly undid me earlier while digging her fingernails into my back.

The pinch of pain spurs me toward the finish line. “You’re so fucking sexy when you’re close. I knew you’d be.”

Her eyes roll back in her head and she moans, “I’m coming. Oh, God, Jesus, Andrew—fuck me.”

I drop her ass onto the counter, take her hips in a firm grip, and finally let go. I pound into her, fucking with a singular need to get off, knowing she’s taken care of. She clenches around me over and over. Her hands find their way into my hair and pull. I growl and thrust and take until it feels like I’m going to explode on the spot. When I finally do, it’s pure relief, like I’ve been working toward this all night, and nothing else would satisfy me. I stare up at the ceiling as I finish, my chest heaving. Her hands are still in my hair. I shut my eyes and continue milking myself with her sweet pussy until I’ve calmed. Sweat trickles down my temple. Somehow, I’m still wearing my t-shirt, and it sticks to my skin. I blow out a breath and finally look back at her.

Her face is red, her mascara smeared under one eye. There’s a darkening spot on her chest from where I sucked whisky off. Her hair is the only thing that’s still practically untouched, and I make a note to mess it up good next time.

With a shudder, she starts to tremble.

“Shit,” I murmur, surprised at how breathless I am. For fuck’s sake, I lift three days a week and get in cardio however I can. “You okay? Did I hurt you?”

“Am I okay?” she repeats. To my relief, the corner of her mouth lifts. “No. Absolutely terrible.”

“I’m serious.” I inhale a deep breath, trying to pull myself together, even though a wave of exhaustion overcomes me. Suddenly, I want a pillow, a bed, a warm body. I want to pass out, if only for a minute. I release her hips to take her face, pecking her forehead, then her cheek and finally, her mouth. I linger there, stroking my tongue over her bottom lip. Slipping my arm around her back, I hug her to me. A year is a long time to go without anyone’s touch. “How do you feel?”

This time, her voice is a murmur. Unguarded. “Good.”

“Good.” I squeeze her shoulder, massaging it a little, trying to bring her down. She’s no longer shaking, but she shudders a couple times. “Was it too much?”

“No. Just what I needed.”

We stay like that a moment. My eyelids sag, but I doubt it’s even nine. She’s been a lot of work, and I have zero complaints. It’s nice to put effort in for once.

“You can go,” she says. “You don’t have to do this part.”

My drooping eyelids fling back open as I straighten up. “Go?” I jerk back to see her better. “Are you kidding? This is my night off. That was just the warm up.”

She scrunches her nose and, I think, almost giggles. “Oh. Really?”

“I don’t know about your exes, but I’ve got a bit more stamina than that. Morning is a long ways off.” I pull out of her. “I’ll be ready again soon, and I have plans for you.”

Her skepticism melts away into an easy smile. “I like how you think you’re in charge. It’s cute.”

“Wasn’t so cute a few minutes ago, was it?”

I think she’s going to blush again, but I don’t get the satisfaction. Instead, she hops off the counter, shaking her head. “Okay. I’ll give you that one. But next time, we do it my way.”

“All right, boss,” I concede, knowing if she’s naked and I’m horny, there’s no way she’ll be ordering me around. “What’re we going to do until round two? I might need a power nap.”

She laughs, and her gorgeous, full breasts bounce a little. “You’re tired?”

“Exhausted. Aren’t you?”

“Not at all.”

“Hmm. Then a nap won’t work.” I look down, pinch the tip of the condom, and slide it off. “Trash?”

“Under the sink.”

I toss it. This is usually the time I leave unless I’m horny enough to stick around for another go. Coincidentally, or not, it’s also usually when the chick gets clingy, but Amelia seems to be at ease. Thank God. I like her, and I want to keep hanging out, but I don’t want her to turn into what I’m used to. Denise always tries to get me to stay the night, or worse, take a goddamn bubble bath. Apparently, it feels pretty good after sex. Eases the tension, according to her.

So fucking girly and romantic.

But, I’ll admit, now that I’m thinking about it, easing the tension might be what I need. I just used muscles I haven’t in months, even with my most thorough workouts. And I’ll need them again shortly. A bath sounds oddly . . . perfect. After screwing like animals, is there a better way to come down? “Maybe we should clean up,” I suggest.

“Bathroom’s through my bedroom,” she says.

“What about you?”

“I feel okay.”

“Oh.” I nod slowly. “I thought maybe you’d want to clean up with me.”

“A shower?” she asks, dipping her head playfully. “I could do that.”

“Yeah, or . . . you know, not a shower.”

She blinks a few times. “What?”

I look around the kitchen. Since I’m not a teenage girl, I can’t exactly suggest we take a bath and certainly not one that involves bubbles. I sniff, pushing out my chest. “Never mind. You have any broken appliances that need to be fixed?”

“No,” she says drawing out the word, possibly suppressing a laugh. “Everything works fine. Sink. Toilet. Bathtub.”

I look back at her. “Bathtub?”

“Yep.” She leans against the counter. “It’s huge. One of the reasons we picked this apartment.”

“Cool.” We stare at each other. Shit. Soaking myself in hot water with a beautiful woman is sounding better by the second. Fuck it. “We should use it.”

“Use what?”

“The . . . tub.”

“You want to take a bath?” she asks, pursing her lips. Her cheeks round as her face reddens. “With or without bubbles?”

“Without, obviously.” I squint at the ceiling, pretending to check for cracks. Cracks could indicate a bad foundation, and I’d hate for her to be living somewhere dangerous. “Or with,” I add. “That would be fine too.”

“Oh my God.” She bursts into laughter. “Not a shower,” she mimics.

“You knew that’s what I was getting at, didn’t you?” I accuse.

“I just had to hear you say it. You’re awfully handsome for such a girly girl.”

I grunt, then startle her by scooping one arm under her legs and hoisting her into my arms. “I guess you think you’re pretty clever. Now, where the hell do you keep the bubble bath?”

SIX

AMELIA

As I fill the tub, I decide a bubble bath isn’t romantic when it’s simply a follow-up to an intense workout. That’s exactly what Andrew and I just did: worked the shit out of each other.

I drip liquid bath soak into the water, watching bubbles foam and rise. They’re harmless, bubbles and baths. Our rules are still in place, and a little intimacy won’t make us forget ours pasts.

Andrew comes into the bathroom with drink refills. “Sorry it took me a minute,” he says. “I called to say goodnight to my daughter.”

“Oh.” I take my glass. I’d almost forgotten about her, but apparently he hasn’t. Why would he? He seems like a good dad, yet surprisingly well put together for a man with a young child. There’re no stains—markers or spit-up or whatever it is kids do—on his clothing. He doesn’t wear the defeated look some of my girlfriends do. Maybe it’s different for men. But I don’t want to think of him that way, as a father. Tonight, he’s just a man who crossed my path at the right time. I wipe beads of sweat from my temple.

“Smells good in here,” he remarks, walking farther i

nto the bathroom. He picks up the bubble bath and reads, “Apricot cream with Tahitian vanilla extract. What the . . .?”

“What?” I ask.

“They couldn’t find any American vanilla? And they spelled cream wrong for fuck’s sake.”

I laugh. “It’s crème,” I say. “You know, French? Like crème de la crème.”

He removes the cap and takes a whiff. “God, that’s good. How much did this cost?”

“Not sure. Probably around seventy-five dollars—”

“For bubble bath?”