“Not often enough,” he says. “I’ve probably come up here once or twice. But when you said you wanted a place to lie in the rain, I knew exactly where I’d take you.” Seeming insecure, he asks, “Do you like it?”
I nod. “I like it a lot. It could use a piece of furniture.” I chuckle. “But I think it’s perfect. Thank you.”
When he doesn’t say anything, but instead continues to stare at me, I take that moment to scoot closer to him. The heat of the day doesn’t quite break through all the rain, so my body is slightly chilled, but not chilled enough to force me to leave. I just need a little warmth.
Noticing my intention, he lifts his arm, and I scoot in even closer until he wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me against his side. And, oh God, does he smell good. Like fresh, masculine laundry—if that makes sense.
“Should’ve put on something warmer,” he says.
“I didn’t know I’d be out in the rain, and these are the clothes you provided me.” I look up at him. “I’ve come to realize you’re a pervert.”
He lightly chuckles. “I’m not a pervert.”
“Everything in that closet of mine is scandalous. I’m going to start working my way into your dresser drawers and taking all your shirts.”
“Have whatever you want. You look sexy in both.”
I lift up, my hand on his chest as I stare at him. “Was that a compliment, Huxley?”
“Want me to take it back?”
“No.” I shake my head and press my hand to my heart. “I need to cherish this moment. Huxley Cane complimented me. Not sure this moment could get any better.”
“It can,” he says and pulls me on top of him. Compared to his tall and muscular stature, I feel so miniature, so petite. Both of his hands fall to my lower back and then slip an inch under the waistband of my shorts.
“Is this comfortable for you?” I ask him.
“Very,” he says.
“And I thought you wouldn’t appreciate having a shrew of a woman draped across you.”
He laughs, and it’s such a beautiful sound. “I might enjoy the shrew more than I thought.”
This causes me to sit all the way up until I’m situated on top of his lap. “Are you saying you enjoy my company rather than despise it?”
His hands fall to my thighs, and he moves them farther north until they connect with the insides of my hips. It’s a small touch, but it carries a large impact as a bolt of lust shoots right up my spine.
“I never despised you. You have to stop thinking that. Did I find you mildly irritating at times? Of course.”
I laugh. “Such a charmer.”
“Wasn’t aware I needed to charm you.” His eyes speak of pure playfulness. “Do you need charming?”
I pretend to fluff my wet hair. “Wouldn’t hurt you to throw a little charm this way.”
He wets his lips even though they probably don’t need it because of the rain. “What do you consider charm? Words or actions?”
“Both can qualify.”
He glances at my chest and then back up at me. “So, if I were to say your tits look hot in that see-through lace top, would that charm you?”
It’s see-through?
I glance down and see the clear definition of my nipples. Well, I guess it is see-through when it’s wet.
“I guess that would charm me marginally, but I believe you could probably do better.”
“Yeah?” His hands snake up my sides until they loop under my bralette and pull it up and over my head. He tosses the drenched fabric to the side and then brings his hands to my thighs. “What about now? Charming?”
I sit there, on his lap, topless, in the rain, and to any other person, this action could be defined as “horny man.”
But, God, with one blink of his eye, he could charm these shorts right off me.
“From your silence and heavy breathing, I’m going to take that as a yes.”
He’s so cocky, so sure of himself. It’s sexy and also vaguely annoying. The annoying part causes my next action.
I rest my hand on his stomach and shift my pelvis over his lap. His playful eyes immediately turn dark, seductive.
“What are you doing?”
“Showing you what charm really is.” I rotate my hips again, and this time, I’m rewarded by him growing harder underneath me.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want his cock. After giving him head in the shower, there’s nothing I want more than to experience him driving into me over and over again. But he’s also a bit of a flight risk, and while we’ve made some progress this weekend—progress toward what, I’m not sure, but at least he’s engaging with me—I don’t want to push him too far, just enough.
Water drips down my face as I smile at him. “You see, Huxley”—I rub my center over his erection in a continuous motion, finding just the right spot for both of us—“charm can easily come in the form of dry-humping.”
He lets out a roar of laughter right before the most gorgeous smile I’ve ever seen lights up his face. God, he’s beautiful. Sexy and hot, yes, but right now, I see a boyish cuteness to him as well.
“I had no idea charm could be translated through dry-humping. I always thought the universal translation for dry-humping was . . . ‘hey, I’m horny.’”
I steady my hands on his stomach, which causes my breasts to press together. “It can mean both.”
Still smiling, he reaches up to my breasts and rolls my nipples with his fingers. “Good to know.” He then envelops my right breast in his hand, squeezing, massaging. “Have I ever told you how fucking hot your tits are?”
“Mmm,” I moan, picking up my pace just a notch. “I can’t remember. Maybe. But tell me more.”
“They’re sexy as fuck, Lottie. Not too big, not too small, tight little nipples that beg me to touch them. I could spend hours just playing with your tits.”
“Hours seems excessive.” My head falls back as he sits up and brings his mouth to my breast. He sucks tightly on my nipple and . . . that’s it. The scruff of his jaw rubbing against my sensitive skin combined with the intimate feeling of his lips on my nipple sends a crazy rip of pleasure down my spine and all the way to my curled toes.
“Hours are necessary.” He moves his mouth to my other breast and pays as much attention to that nipple as he did the other.
My hand floats to the back of his head, and I hold him in place, not wanting him to stop doing what he’s doing, because it lights me up, makes me feel alive.
The patter of rain around us heightens the mood, as well as the way the water runs over our two bodies, soaking our clothes, our hair, our skin. It’s erotic. The only thing that could make this better would be if we were both completely naked.
“God, Huxley,” I groan when he tugs on my nipple with his teeth. “I want more.”
He takes that as a sign to flip me to my back, laying me across the cold, wet surface of the teak-wood flooring. His gorgeous body hovers above mine, blocking the rainfall from hitting me in the face. His chest ripples above me, his hair’s wet with droplets, and his eyes are so intense with need that I find myself spreading my legs.
He positions himself between them, his large frame causing me to make even more room. He lowers his pelvis to mine, and when they touch, immediate gratification strikes me in the chest.
Yes.
He feels so much better like this.
Heavy against me.
Hard as stone.
But he’s the one in control, something I’ve come to love when he touches me. I want him to own me, own my body, and make me forget everything around us.
“I want your shorts off,” he says in a tortured tone.
He pushes his hand through his hair, sopping the water away, and lifts off me only enough to pull down on my shorts. I help him remove them with a lift of my hips, and once they’re off, he drops them to the side and positions himself against me again.
I’ve never been naked in the rain.
And I’m going to be honest, it might be my new favorite thing.
It’s exciting.
Daring.
Erotic.
Huxley hovers over me, the only thing between us his shorts, and they do nothing to hide his massive erection.
“I love seeing you like this,” he says, “submitting to me. I’ve never seen anything sexier in my life. This is it, right here, you naked, wet, legs spread, waiting for me.” He wets his lips. “How much do you want me?”
“More than I care to admit,” I say, looping my hand behind his neck.
“Still hate me?”