He leans forward obediently, which lets me slide a pillow in behind his back. My objective is twofold, of course. I’m acutely aware of the abrasions and recent wounds on his back, no matter how patched. A pillow will help.
Also, it gives me a chance to stick my breasts in his face.
I do just that, making sure to rub them against his chest, and then his jaw as I pretend to fluff the pillow. My breasts are loose under the shirt, and he groans and reaches up to grab a handful.
I gasp, because it sends a bolt of heat rocketing through my body the moment he touches me, and his thumb grazes my nipple. He buries his face between my breasts and groans deep again. “Ava. Goddamn, sweet Ava.”
“You’re a very naughty patient,” I chide him and pull away, even though I want to cram my breasts back into his face and see if he’ll tongue my nipples. Flustered, I straighten my shirt and turn to my water bucket. My breasts feel aching and tight under the shirt, and I want to rip it off and climb all over him. Patience, Ava.
“You’re a torturer,” he rasps.
I wink at him. “Torture’s half the fun, baby.” With my good hand, I squeeze the towel and then lean forward. “Can I soap you now?” The V-neck of the T-shirt is probably giving him a good look at my cleavage, and when his gaze goes there, I know I’ve found yet another way to drive him insane.
“If you touch me,” he warns, “I might bust in my pants.”
“Then I’ll clean you up.” I sit on the edge of the bed and delicately trace the washcloth over his collarbones. Fact is, he’s a virgin. Sticking the tip in does not count—at least not in this scenario. I’m not expecting him to be more than a one-pump chump. At least, not the first time. There’s no expectations of screaming from the rafters from orgasm after orgasm. For me, this is about him, because I’m getting off on making him wild.
Sex doesn’t have to be about someone dicking you until you can’t stand. It can be about soft, sexy touches and playful words, and I want to show Rafe that. I want to show him that I don’t care about his scars, or the fact that he’s got an absurdly large (and kinda painful-looking) penis. Sex can just be about enjoying each other and enjoying what the other person offers.
Then it can be about him dicking me until I can’t stand up.
He closes his eyes as I drag the cloth over his chest. Rivulets of water move down that tanned skin, and my plan is suddenly working against me. Now I want to put my mouth on that skin, taste those warm muscles for myself. Bite his hard pectorals. Do all kinds of naughty, wicked things to the man. I sigh as I dip my cloth again and trace it down his belly. “You sure are a good-looking man, Rafe Mendoza.”
He cracks an eye open at me. “I’m scarred everywhere.”
“Chicks dig scars.”
He snorts.
“I’m serious. If I saw you at a party, I’d probably have to pick up my jaw.” I slide a wet finger over his belly button. “Those dark eyes, that thick hair, your gorgeous tan. Mmm.” He’s quiet, and when I look over at him again, the intense, aching need is back in his eyes. I know just how he feels. My pulse seems to be centered between his legs, and my nipples are aching for his mouth. I feel achy with need everywhere. All of this from a half-assed sponge bath and a promise of pleasure later.
No reason I can’t up the ante, though. “Why don’t you take those pants off so I can finish wiping you down?”
He hesitates, and my heart aches a little. I know he’s worried about Godzilla and his size. He’s worried about whatever happened in the past. Time to distract him again. This time, when I lift the towel from the bucket, I let it stay sloppy wet and drag it across my breasts, so the fabric of the shirt sticks to me. “Oops. Look what I did. How clumsy.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
RAFAEL
“Fuck, Ava, you are so beautiful.” I drag a hand over my suddenly parched mouth. I know what I want to wet it with, though.
“You’re a fan of post-jungle couture?” She waves a hand over her frame and I guess I’m supposed to see some flaws, but all I notice are her generous curves, the shiny glow of freshly washed skin, and the open, welcoming look on her face. “I clean up pretty good.”
“If you were any more beautiful, my heart would stop.” I tug on her hand so that she’s no longer kneeling between my legs. I’m afraid that just staring down at her in that position is going to have me coming all over her face. Plus I have plans for her. I run my hands down her thighs to the backs of her knees. Her calves are slightly muscled and she has a delicate ankle. There’s a hollow behind her ankle bone that is begging to be kissed. Actually, there isn’t one part of her body that isn’t made for my lips.
Her hands find their way to my shoulders. The touch is light.
“You won’t hurt me,” I tell her. I need her to be certain of tonight, not because I expect her to have sex with me but because I don’t want her in my bed out of some misplaced idea of gratitude. I want that touch to be sure.