He nuzzles his nose against my cheek and kisses the space beneath my ear.
‘Mmm, I know you do. That’s why you’re always so wet for me.’
‘That’s because I’m in the shower.’
‘Not all the other times. All the dozens of scores of hundreds of other times. All those times you’ve begged me, on your wide-open knees …’
‘That’s because I’m trying to kill you with sex. I’ll do it one day.’
‘Mmm, best assassination technique ever.’
His hands are low now, fingers moving down with the trickles of water, flowing and meeting at the delta of my sex. He holds me by my cunt and bites down into the softness of my neck.
I give in to it. My body knows no other way. I spread my feet further apart, granting him full access to my lips and clit and vagina, all so recently used by him.
The water provides an extra element of friction when he starts the slow up-down rubbing of my clit with the side of his hand. It almost feels rough, refractory, needing extra force, which he gives.
Because I am facing away from him, I can see the way his arm crosses my body, watch the sinews move beneath the skin, slide my gaze down to his wrist, see the point where the fingers bend and disappear beneath me. Watching the intricate interplay of those muscles, knowing but not seeing what they are working on, is powerfully aphrodisiac. I can see what he is doing, and I can feel what he is doing at the same time.
But then he changes tack, puts his hands on my thighs and slides down behind me until he is on his knees. A tongue joins the lapping water at my pussy, a strong push brings it between my lips. I pivot at the hips and press my palms flat against the wall, holding myself up, keeping myself in position for more of this oral delight.
It’s as if he drinks the warm water away, lapping it up, replacing it with his own luscious licking, cleaning me to make me dirty.
I drip into his mouth, rotating my hips, beginning to moan. He holds me fast, flicks that tongue faster, flicking the engorged bead of my clit over and over. My palms begin to slide. I fear I might fall, but he claps his hands on my hips, keeping me upright.
In the cage frame of his arms, my body slumps. My core burns and blooms, ribbons of sensation unfurling inside me, gushing out to join the combined waters of his tongue and the hot water pipe. I become a fountain.
My splashing self slips down to the tiled shower basin. I want to lie there while the droplets cover and bathe me. But Lloyd has other ideas.
Still on his knees, he clears his throat and looks forlornly down at his erection.
His hair plastered to his scalp, his eyelashes brimming with water-sparkles, his face clean and shining, he looks too completely fucking adorable. I can’t resist him. I haul myself to my knees facing him and take his testicles in my hands, testing them for firmness and fullness. Lloyd has seemingly endless supplies of testosterone, as his cock testifies.
I suck him gently at first, then with increasing urgency, pinching the base of his shaft, squeezing his balls, getting my lips down lower and lower until he is deep in my throat. My cheeks are wet when his thick load of cream shoots into my mouth, but the shower isn’t the only reason for that. There’s a saline element to the damp patches, a stickiness.
When I lie back in his arms, letting the water engulf us both, I hope he hasn’t noticed, but the way he traces a finger beneath the lower lid of both my eyes suggests he has.
Chapter Three
‘Someday my prints will come,’ I sing, checking through the mail while Lloyd pores over a spreadsheet at the desk. ‘But not today.’
He glances over. ‘No sign of the photos? She said it would be a couple of weeks.’
‘It’s been a couple of weeks.’
‘Yeah, fourteen days exactly. Cut her some slack. She probably wants to hang on to them a bit longer for her own personal use.’
‘Ugh, shut up. I don’t want them used as masturbation aids. Unless it’s by me.’ I open a big A4 envelope. ‘Cool, Fashion Forward wants to do a shoot in the restaurant and a couple of the penthouse suites. They’ve sent a contract.’
‘Uh-huh. What’s that one?’
He points to a less glamorous envelope, a thin brown one tossed aside to be dealt with once the post with posh watermarks has been opened.
‘Dunno, looks like … it isn’t stamped.’ I look sharply up at Lloyd. His face answers my question, a little bit tense, a little bit excited.
He feigns absorption in his spreadsheet, but I can tell he’s watching me from the corner of his eye. I slide a fingernail under the loosely gummed flap, watching him back.
A compliment slip flutters out, on