All the Feels (Spoiler Alert #2)(82)

A dismissive flick of her wrist. “Cautious isn’t the same thing as shy.”

“No.” He huffed out a laugh. “Evidently not.”

Her tone was matter-of-fact. “Even though I don’t have a ton of sexual experience, I’m not ashamed of my body. It may not be conventionally beautiful, but it’s strong. It’s mine. And it’s obvious you want it”—she directed her gaze at his rampant cock, still pushing futilely at the material of his boxer briefs—“so what would be the point of hiding?”

“I love your body.” He couldn’t put it more plainly than that. “I’m fucking obsessed with it.”

His poor, beleaguered brain couldn’t determine his favorite view. That bountiful ass, or the tempting puff of brown curls atop her sex, or the subtle curves of her breasts, or—

“In that case …” She held out her hand, her eyes warm and happy. “Let’s see who makes the most noise.”

He held up a finger. “One last thing.”

Stripping off his boxer briefs without ceremony, he straightened for her perusal. Turnabout, etc., etc.

Her harsh intake of breath was pure flattery. He drew his shoulders back and preened. And she’d said she wasn’t shy, so he slid a hand down his belly and gave his poor, aching cock the firm stroke it needed.

When she bit her lip, he grinned. “Now I’m ready.”

He intertwined his fingers with hers, and together they ventured out onto the balcony, removed the tub’s cover, and began filling it with water. The night had turned invitingly cool, and he tugged her against him while they waited, naked body to naked body at last, and ran his hands over her back and down her pliant arms.

It was like hugging the softest, warmest, most erection-inducing pillow ever. But Jesus, she was so short. The curls between her thighs tickled his leg, and her breasts nudged against his belly, and there was no way they’d ever have upright sex.

There were benefits to her lack of height, though, as he discovered almost immediately.

When she spoke, her breath wafted over his nipple, and he shuddered. “If I pull you down to kiss you, are you going to bitch about your neck and back?”

“Yes,” he said. “Do it anyway.”

He obligingly bent low, and unlike their first, desperate kiss the previous night, this one was unhurried. A kiss to court her pleasure, rather than stake a claim.

Her lips weren’t especially plump, but they were so very sensitive. When he took the lower one between his and sucked lightly, she swayed against him, her thighs parting against his leg. When he gently nipped, she made a rough sound in her throat and arched her back against his hand. When he flicked his tongue against the seam of her mouth, she gasped, and he took advantage.

Her mouth was slick and hot, her own tongue a sliding tease, and he skimmed his hands down—and down farther, because holy shit, she was a goddamn shrimp-woman—to her ass. The skin there was satiny and giving, cool until his palms warmed her.

At his silent urging, the press of his hands, she was almost straddling his leg, and there—oh, there, she wasn’t cool at all. The heat fucking seared him.

She wrenched her mouth away, breathing hard. “The tub.”

Oh. He’d forgotten about that, what with his whole Wren-is-naked-and-hot-and-kissing-me-thank-fucking-Christ preoccupation.

The tub was more than halfway full, and comfortably sized for three or four people. Perfect. With a flick of his wrist, the gush of water ceased, and the night went silent. He stepped inside the tub first and held her hand as she swung one leg over the high lip, then the other. The water was the perfect temperature, warm but not scorching.

As he sank down, he eyed the placement of the jets and grinned.

If he wasn’t mistaken, Wren looked at them too, then glanced away, her color high.

Once they were seated, a gentle tug persuaded her onto his lap, straddling him. And oh, fuck, her pussy slid against his cock, and they both groaned, and he couldn’t fucking breathe.

But if she didn’t come first, he’d never forgive himself.

He clamped his hands on her hips. “Just … just stay still for a minute. Please.”

When she nodded, he slicked his hands up her sides. He wouldn’t rush this, not when he’d never touched her breasts before. Never held them or kissed them or—

He stroked his knuckles along the modest swells. Her nipples furled tighter, and he swept the pad of his thumb lightly over one peak. She shivered, her eyes closed.

He nuzzled against her ear.

“Watch me,” he whispered, then licked her earlobe. “Watch us.”

Her throat bobbed in a hard swallow, but she did it. Her gorgeous, dazed eyes heavy-lidded, she tipped her chin down and watched as he cupped her breasts, flicked and plucked her hard nipples until she was squirming in his lap—a violation of her agreement, which he’d complain about later, much later—and ducked his head to rub his beard against her pale curves.

“Alex,” she breathed, and he took one of those flushed, swollen peaks in his mouth. Sucked until she gave a thin, high cry, pressed down firmly against his dick, and rocked.

“This is another of my favorite tropes, Wren.” He nuzzled her breast. “Fuck or die. Here we are, directly atop the San Andreas Fault, and if you don’t come, an earthquake will end us all.”