“Oh, fuck,” he groaned.
She wrapped her hand around the base of his shaft and lapped at the soft head, the taste of precome diluted by the water coursing in rivulets down his abdominal wall and into his pubic hair. Smoothly stroking his length, she glanced up at him, saw unabashed desire in his hot gaze. He reached down and stroked her wet hair, then opened his palm beside her jaw. Blocking the spray from her face.
“Thanks,” she said, a smile curving her lips. Breathing was already hard enough without water spraying her nose and mouth.
“Anything to help,” he returned, the tone intense under the humorous words.
His hand so close to her face helped and didn’t help, because the breathing part wasn’t getting any easier. It was too much anticipation, too much promise, too much Jamie, every fantasy she’d ever had jostling for space in her brain, so she closed her eyes and rubbed her tongue against the underside of his cock until the swift tightening of his muscles told her she’d found the sensitive bundle of nerves there.
She experimented until his groans evened out and settled into a steady, faint rumble, keeping her rhythm even and slow, stroking and cupping his balls until they tightened under her palm, then sliding up to explore the crease between thigh and hip, the sharp jut of bone, the muscle bulging above it. Long minutes passed, her skin so hypersensitive that every droplet of water pelting her, trickling down her breasts and belly to stream between her thighs felt like individual fingers stroking her, teasing her. When she moved her hand in time with her mouth, Jamie’s fingers abruptly tightened around the back of her skull and urged her to her feet.
“Incredible,” he growled, his cock nudging at her hip, her belly. One hand dropped to arrow down her belly, parting the folds between her legs. Fingertips skimmed up to circle her clit, making her hips buck, then back down where he pressed a finger inside her.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
She could feel how slick she was as he added a second finger, stroking the sensitive opening with a deft touch. “That’s always turned me on.”
He looked at her, aroused and amused and arrogant as hell with her hips lifting into his hand. “You’re a dream come true, you know that?”
She patted around in the niche, knocking her can of shaving cream to the floor, until she found the condoms. “I want you inside me.”
He chucked the torn packet to the floor beside the shaving cream and rolled the condom down his shaft, then bent his knees, his hands gliding along her thigh to her hip, lifting her leg to open her. She wrapped her arms under his and gripped his shoulders, going up on tiptoe until the off-target nudges of his cock made it clear the angle was off.
“Lift me,” she said, but he understood angles, trajectories, and was already doing it, one strong arm under her bottom as he widened his stance. She wrapped both legs around his hips and tilted her pelvis.
A long, soft, hitching groan echoed in the shower. A few seconds later she realized it was her making that sound, the stretching pressure of his cock gliding deep on the very first stroke forcing air through her vocal cords.
“Okay?” he asked, his voice almost inaudible under the pattering drops.
The stretch burned, then softened into a deep, sweet ache. Her nails, though short and blunt, were embedded in his shoulders; she relaxed her hands a little, watched the white divots darken as blood flowed back into them, then through the surface of the skin. Without thinking about it, she bent and licked the tiny droplet. In response, his cock throbbed inside her, drawing an answering contraction from her sheath.
“More,” she said, then added, “now.” Single-syllable commands seemed to be the only ones left in her vocabulary.
A sharp, huffing laugh brushed his chest wall against her breasts. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, low and hot, and pulled out. The gliding stroke back in tapped her tailbone against the shower wall, and felt so, so good, like a deep massage, pain subsiding into pleasure with each movement, until the pain was gone and only a deep stretching languor remained.
His feet slipped on the tile, startling her. He cursed, adjusted his stance, and drove forward again, this time smacking her tailbone hard against the wall. She threw her head back and cried out, and it was game on, a decade’s worth of desire suddenly, fiercely peaking. Her orgasm tore through her, then out of her on short, sharp cries. He thrust through the contractions, then stiffened and growled and spilled deep inside her.
“You okay to stand?” he said when he pulled out.
She gave a snorting little laugh. “You’re good, Hawthorn,” she said. “Very, very good. But not forty-minutes-of-playing-time good.”
One corner of his mouth lifted, then he patted her hip. “You’re so kind to my ego, Stannard.”