“Now you like watching?”
“Love your hands,” she murmured, stroking his nape while she watched the complex play of tendons, ligaments, muscle, and bone as his fingers performed the delicate task. “Also, there’s nothing better going on.”
He lifted her off the bench and onto his lap seemingly without effort. His cock jutted away from his pelvis, making it easy to center her over the tip and let her weight do the work. “How about now? Something better going on now?”
Her eyes fluttered closed again. “Definitely,” she hitched out. Seeking entrance, the tip stretched sensitive, vulnerable flesh, then parted the swollen folds and slid inside. He controlled her descent with his hands, pausing when she flinched. She waited until the single pang passed, then licked his throat. He tasted of water, sweat, and his skin.
“All the way,” she said, and stopped breathing until he was seated inside her.
He gave her short, slow, shallow thrusts, working the tip of his cock over the most sensitive tissue at her entrance, reminding her body that more pleasure awaited. His mouth was open against hers, soft, panting grunts increasing in intensity as he moved. He was holding back, she realized, so she kissed him, flickering her tongue over his lips, into his mouth, tempting him into kissing back as she circled her hips in his hands.
“Stop helping,” he groaned.
“I’m not helping,” she replied. “I want you deep.”
A tremor ran through him. He lifted himself a little higher on his knees, bracing her lower back against the tiled bench. Cady flattened her feet on the floor but even then she wasn’t ready for a thrust driven by his powerful hips. The only thing keeping her in place was his equally powerful arms, one around her waist, the other curving over her shoulder to hold her in place. His tempo increased, a solid, slapping sound became the counterpoint to her hiccupping cries.
“Again?” he asked.
“Again,” she said through her tight throat, tipping over the edge into that pulsing certainty before she came. “Oh yes, again.”
The deep shudders wracking his body and his arms tight around her told her he’d followed her into the void. Tension eased from his body in stages, his fingers trembling against her shoulder and hip, then relaxing. When she thought her arms would take her weight, she braced her palms on the bench behind her and lifted herself up and off him, his hand supporting her the whole way.
“That was intense,” she said.
“Probably crazy to do in that kind of heat,” he agreed, flashing her a softer, sweeter smile.
Probably crazy to do at all, she thought as she got to her feet and tottered over to the controls. With the twist of a handle she shut off the steam and turned on the shower jets, adjusting the temperate to a more reasonable warmth. The dual rain heads turned on, and she stepped under the spray.
He joined her a moment later, taking the shampoo bottle from her hand and setting it back in the niche, then taking her jaw in his hands and holding her for a series of sweet kisses. “I should have done more of that,” he said.
“Well,” she murmured against his mouth. “There’s always round two.”
*
Round two didn’t happen. They soaped and rinsed and dried off, but when Conn wrapped a towel around his hips and headed for his bedroom, she caught his hand and pulled him into bed with her. When she woke up the next morning, pushed her hair out of her face and rolled over to see who was asleep beside her, the first word out of her mouth was “Ow.”
Conn didn’t move. Buried in her enormous, fluffy comforter, he was snoring faintly, and dead to the world. Cady smiled fondly. His hair was as much of a wreck as hers, sticking straight up off the side of his head where he’d fallen asleep on his side. Hers, no doubt, was a Bride of Frankenstein mess. She eased herself out of the bed, wincing at the soreness in her low back. A quick glance in the bathroom mirror showed a line of bruises forming at the base of her spine.
She shook some anti-inflammatories into her palm, then continued into the kitchen to down them with a glass of water, then do her morning steam treatment while the coffee brewed in the French press. When she turned around, Conn was standing by the island, resting his weight on one palm. She snorted.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, rubbing his hand over his crazy hair. He slept naked but was dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. “What have you got there?” he asked with a nod at her little pharmacopeia.
“Painkillers and vitamins,” she said.
“What are the painkillers for?”
Wordlessly, she lifted up her fleece pajama top, tugged down the bottoms, and showed him the line of bruises along her back. Equally silent, he pulled up the cuff of his sweatpants and showed her a purplish-black bruise on his knee.