Tamed (Tangled 3)

“Well . . . if the Egyptians didn’t build them, who did?”

“Aliens.”

“Aliens?”

“Of course. There’s tons of proof that aliens have been visiting Earth for centuries—you don’t even know.”

Nope, and I don’t want to. That last one is too freaky—and plausible—for me.

I wake up Saturday morning to the sounds of running water from the shower. And the screechy echo of Delores’s singing from inside it. “I Knew You Were Trouble” by Taylor Swift is probably the most annoying song ever written—but hearing Dee’s awful rendition just makes me chuckle.

Never one to waste good wood—particularly the morning kind—I grab a condom out of the nightstand drawer, slip out of bed, and step into the bathroom.

“. . . trouble . . . ah . . . ah . . .” Her eyes are closed and her head is tilted back to rinse her long hair under the spray. “. . . ah . . .”

I get into the shower and waste no time, going immediately for Dee’s succulent nipple that’s already pointy and proud. She’s not startled. She doesn’t yell. Her pitchy “ah” changes to a muted moan, and her hands slide across my shoulder blades, pulling me closer.

I like that she knows it’s me, without opening her eyes.

I realize the likelihood of anyone else worshipping her beautiful tits at this place and time except me is slim to none. But what I mean is . . . she knows my touch. My sounds, my movements. We’ve become used to—attuned to—each other in the greatest of ways. I know she likes her hair pulled just before she’s about to come. And she knows it drives me crazy to watch her finger her nipple ring or when she traces my abs with her tongue.

Once she’s rubbing—squirming—against me, I release her breast and devour her lips, sliding my mouth against hers and my tongue inside her warm heat. Without breaking the kiss, I roll on the condom with deft fingers. Then I wrap an arm around her waist and lift her against me with little effort.

Her legs take their natural place around my hips. Cock in hand, I drag the head across her pu**y and even with the warmth of the water raining down around us, I feel how hot and eager she is.

I push inside her fully, pressing her back up against the tiled wall. She tears her mouth from mine and moans. Her head tilts back as I start to move—strong, deliberate strokes that fill her completely. I pant against her cheek. She bites my shoulder and I groan.

Her legs squeeze me tighter, and I move faster. Wanting to go deeper. Harder. More.

Always more.

She grunts. “I love your cock. It’s perfect.” She grinds against me, lifting herself up and down on me, in time with the movements of my hips. “Fuck me, Matthew . . . f**k me with your perfect cock.”

Her words get me hotter. Make me harder.

I feel the flutter of her muscles starting to contract around me—tightening—making each thrust of my hips all the more intense and eye-crossingly pleasurable. I speed up even more, wanting us to come together.

Her back is flat against the wall, not an inch of space between our chests as I press into her deeper and deeper. Then she’s clenching me, holding me inside as she comes with a high whimper. And I’m right there with her—crying her name as every nerve in my body explodes in a rapturous frenzy.

Dee kisses me again. Slower this time, almost tenderly. I don’t let her go right away, but I bury my face in the crook of her neck, content to stay right here with her. All day if I could.

She nuzzles my ear with her lips and whispers, “Good morning.”

“I’ll say.”

I turn, so we’re both directly under the spray, and eventually I loosen my embrace and set her down. Wearing ludicrously satisfied smiles, we wash each other slowly then step out into the steamy bathroom.

As I towel off, I glance at my watch. “Shit, I’m gonna be late.”

Dee rubs her hair with the cotton cloth. “Late for what?”

I smirk. “I’ve got a date.”

For all of Delores’s insistence that she doesn’t want to be serious, it’s obvious my statement bugs the hell out of her. Her elegant shoulders stiffen, her chin rises, her eyes darken and narrow. She tries her best to keep her voice nonchalant.

Tries—and fails.

“Oh, a date? That’s nice. Good for you.”

I grasp her hips and pull her up against me so she’s got nowhere to look but at my grinning face. “You want to join us?”

She tries to pull away. “It’s a little soon for a threesome, don’t you think?”

My ears perk right up. “You’ve done a threesome?”

On second thought, I don’t want to know.

“Never mind. Don’t answer that. Although I like where your thoughts are headed. I’m not asking for a threesome. I’m asking you to come to the zoo . . .”

“Sounds kinky.”

I squeeze her hips. “. . . with Mackenzie and me.”

Dee processes my words. Then she smiles—a relieved, grateful smile. She thinks a moment more. “Won’t Miss The-Dry-Cleaners-Will-Never-Get-That-Out have a problem with me tagging along?”

Many families are way too involved in each other’s business. You know the kind I mean. Sisters who refuse to speak to each other because one married a guy the other didn’t like. Brothers who come to blows because of a bitchy girlfriend, and friends who fall out of touch because someone refused to listen to advice that was never asked for in the first frigging place.