“What birds are they?”
“Where I get clean and fuck you at the same time.”
My heart went crazy. It thumped furiously against my ribs, and I clenched my thighs together as his hands crept over my hips and closer to the apex of my thighs.
“It’s slippery in here.” My attempt at a refusal was laughable. My clit was aching, throbbing, begging me to give in to what he wanted.
“Turn around.” He brushed his lips over my earlobe.
With a deep, shuddering breath, I spun, pressing my bare body against his, turning into the stream of the hot water that cascaded over his body.
He slipped his hand up my back, cupping the side of my face. His fingers brushed my hair. His thumb pressed against my jaw as his lips found mine, taking my mouth in a sweet yet suggestive kiss that had his tongue sweeping across the seam of my mouth.
“Open your legs,” he said against my lips. “Let me touch that tight little cunt of yours.”
My thighs clenched again, this time, tighter than before.
“Dahlia.” His voice was smooth, sexy, deep. An order and a plea, all wrapped into my name, making it impossible to deny his demand. “I love when you do what I say.”
His hand found its way between my legs as he kissed me once more. His thumb circled my clit in seconds, pushing pleasure through my body easily. I was already turned on and ready for him, but a part of me wanted to make him work for it.
Make him want it like I wanted him.
Make him need it more than I did.
Moving away from him, I reached between us. My fingers trailed across his skin, searching for his cock. His wet, hot skin was smooth beneath my touch and there was nothing comparable to the way he twitched and flexed against my hand.
Slowly, I wrapped my fingers around his cock, grasping him gently but firmly. His cock throbbed against my grip, his fingers tightening on my neck and now, my hip.
The water was a lubricant, and slowly, I moved. Up and down, playing with him, rubbing my thumb over the head of his cock, relishing the way that one, thick vein that traveled the length of his shaft pulsed against my fingers.
I squeezed.
He snapped.
Damien pushed me against the cold, wet tiles. He ripped my hand from his cock and grasped my thighs, lifting me, bringing my pussy level with his erection.
The word “condom” flashed through my mind as he kissed me and pushed himself inside.
It was desperate and unapologetic, panic mostly canceled out by my own knowledge of my contraception. A fizzle of fear held, but there was something about the way his hot skin felt against my pussy, about the way his bare skin slid against mine, nothing but my wetness separating us.
I gripped him tightly. My fingers dug into his shoulder and upper back, but he made no complaints. My back slid against the wet wall, but he unfairly kept his balance, fucking me harder as my body succumbed to the pleasure he gave me.
His grip on me tightened.
My legs wrapped harder around his waist.
The water fell over us, closing my eyes, dampening the kiss in texture but not in passion.
Nothing mattered but the way he fucked me.
Grasped me.
Kissed me.
Pleaded me.
Held me.
Wanted me.
Needed me.
Begged me.
Nothing.
Not a fucking thing. Not even as I came, clenching and moaning and holding him.
Not even as he came, mouth on my neck, fingers grabbing my ass, and my name rasping from his lips.
It didn’t even matter that as I fell down the wall, I fell for him.
For the addiction that was Damien Fox.
For the one man I feared I would never get enough of.
It didn’t even matter that, after he pulled out of me, he softly lowered my feet to the ground. He still held me against him, but this time, more gently.
What did matter was the way he squeezed shampoo into his hands. The way he massaged my scalp as he lathered it in my hair and washed it out. The way he rubbed the sponge over my body, filling the air with the scent of hot steam and rich cranberry.
The way, after a hard, rough fuck against a solid wall, he treated me as though I were fragile and breakable—someone who could break at any second.
And the worst part?
I was.
Just as I feared, he held me together.
Just when I thought I’d break, he held my cracks together, far more tenderly than I’d ever imagined he was capable of.
Just when I thought it was done, I knew I was fucked.
Physically. Mentally. Emotionally.
As he ran his hands over my skin, across my shoulders and down the curves of my sides, he stole a piece of me like the thief I feared he was.
Stole it.
Hid it.
Somewhere I’d never find it.
He had to steal it.