Right Through Me (The Obsidian Files #1)(44)

There was a glass shower for two in the corner. Double showerheads, a double marble sink. A tower of fluffy silver gray towels sat on a stand, along with a tray with soaps, shampoos, lotions. Lots of fancy bath stuff for a single guy, she couldn’t help but notice. But his love life was none of her business. She only got one stolen night.

“Like everything,” she said. “Completely over the top. Awesome bathroom.”

“Yes.”

Their eyes met. Her head lifted, and her spine straightened with that mysterious rush that only he could give. That smolder in his eyes just did it to her. Magic.

She let the robe open, and then slip off her shoulders. She shook back her hair and stood there proudly. Enjoying the caressing weight of his gaze on her.

The effect upon his body was obvious, and immediate.

Scented steam drifted. The froth of bubbles had cleared. The huge tub awaited.

Noah peeled off his shirt and sweatpants. His naked body was so powerful and sexual, his heavy phallus jutting high, flushed and ready.

Oh, boy. Play it cool. She twisted her hair up into a loose, tousled knot, and Noah took her hand to help her into the high-walled tub.

Her descent into the steaming water felt like a cleansing ceremony. She sank down with a sigh of bliss. Hot baths were another thing she missed.

He followed her in, bringing the water level higher. Her eyes flicked to the old injury on his collarbone, the only scar visible above the water. It hurt her heart, to think of him alone and terrified as he watched his father being murdered.

She had to look away for a second. Close her eyes.

“Don’t dwell on it,” he said quietly. “It was a long time ago.”

God, how did he do that? She’d looked at his scar for only a split second.

“Stop reading my mind,” she said sharply. “It’s rude. I’ll feel sad for the boy that you were if I damn well feel like it. Do not tell me what to think or feel.”

“I’ll try distraction, then.”

He surged forward across the tub and seized her.



*



They floated and spun, weightless in the water, as Noah plundered her sweet, willing mouth. He slid his hand down to stroke her juicy *, coaxing her legs apart. She murmured against his mouth, opening up to let his finger slide in and writhed sensuously around his exploring hand, squeezing it between her thighs. There was too much water between him and that sweet thing. He wanted to taste her again.

He lifted her up out of the water, which rushed and trickled down over her graceful curves and hollows. “Your turn,” he said. “Sit on the top step. I can’t wait for another taste of you.”

“Ah . . . that’s the thing,” she said hesitantly. “It felt wonderful the last time, but it was hard enough for me to relax when it was dark. In a tub, with the lights on. I’d freeze up.”

He stroked her upper arms. “So I’ll stop, if it doesn’t work for you. Just try it,” he coaxed. “Please. You’re a goddess like this. All rosy and wet.”

She still hesitated. He waited patiently, sliding his hands down the deep curve of her waist, then downward to grip the luscious swell of her ass. “Strange, that you’re self-conscious,” he commented. “You’re not at all when you dance.”

“Performing’s different,” she said.

“Hmm. But you do it for a living.”

“Because I’m broke,” she said. “Besides, when I dance, I’m Shamira. All spangles and veils, doing the shimmy-shimmy-shake. When I’m with you, I’m just me.”

“Cool,” he said. “That’s exactly who I want.”

“The answer’s still no.”

He leaned down to press a hot kiss on her shoulder and then the curve of her neck. “Sit down on that step,” he coaxed. “Let me worship you with my tongue.”

“You slick bastard.” She was trying not to smile.

“I can’t help it. Everything about you is interesting to me. It’s torture that you won’t give me more info.”

She rolled her eyes. “Suffer.”

“I am, I am.” He cupped her breasts, tracing faint, stimulating circles with his thumbs. “I’m wondering what kind of artist you are. Not a painter. Maybe a sculptor?” He ran his hand appreciatively over her curves. “At least a sculptor’s model.”

“Wrong,” she said. “I’m not an artist. Or a sculptor. Or a real dancer. I told you.”

“I get it. Being a fugitive is a full time job.”

She glared at him. “Don’t push me.”

“So shut me up,” he replied. “Keep my mouth too busy to get into trouble.”

She pushed off, floating a little farther from him. Too far. “Do you always get what you want?” she asked.

He thought about it. “No. But that was only because I didn’t know what I wanted. Now I know, and I’m going after it.” He reached out, dragged her back toward him and cupped her ass. Feeling up those beautiful round ass cheeks kept his hands away from her succulent *. For the moment at least.

“You’re so confident,” she commented.

“And you’re stalling,” he replied. “Give it up to me, or I’ll do the X-ray eyes thing. I’ll tell you your social security number and your mother’s maiden name.”