She inhaled sharply. ‘That’s not my sponge…’
‘No.’
Thumbs. Working tensed muscles in her neck. Then hands. Slick, soapy hands that began at her nape and slid across her shoulders. Down either side of her spine and over the curve of her waist, fingers both tantalisingly close to the sides of her breasts and frustratingly far away.
And she maybe shouldn’t have let him start… Her breathing grew heavy. So did her breasts—heavy and tight and full. She wanted to turn around and let him give them the same slow, slick attention.
His hands slid lower and cupped her bottom. Her feminine core grew hot, her breaths quickened. But when his thumbs dipped between her butt cheeks, then lightly down the backs of her thighs, her legs sagged and she braced her hands on the tiles in front of her for support. ‘Jared.’
‘Right here, honey,’ he murmured, his lips so close she could feel his breath hot on her ear. He’d stepped into the shower—she could smell the wet denim—but the only part of him in contact with her were his hands.
And what contact.
‘This was a bad idea…’ She gasped when his exploration grew bolder, his fingers delved deeper. Too deep. Not nearly deep enough…
‘You don’t really think that,’ he assured her.
‘Oh. Yes. I. Do.’ She was so breathless she couldn’t seem to get out more than one word at a time between shallow gulps of air.
‘So you want me to stop…’ His hands moved away.
‘Yes. No,’ she moaned.
She heard his soft chuckle, then sent up a prayer of thanks when his newly soaped-up hands skimmed her waist and came around to cup her breasts. Holding their weight in his palms, he massaged and teased, swirling his fingertips around her tight nipples and sending sensation spiralling to her core and lower, between her thighs.
Steam billowed and swirled around them like an intimate cloak. Just the two of them in their own private steam bath. The water pelting her now oversensitised body felt like hot hailstones and sounded harsh in the stall’s confines.
She squirmed as the ache between her legs intensified. Moving her legs farther apart, she arched her back and begged him silently to, ‘Touch me.’
She hadn’t realised she’d spoken aloud but her whispered plea sounded harsh and desperate in the humid air and not like her at all. And then one of his hands was between her thighs, fingernails cruising along her slippery cleft, the fingers of his other hand rolling a nipple, teasing it into almost unbearable hardness.
‘Like this?’ he whispered against her ear and plunged his fingers inside her. He withdrew them slowly, drawing out the wetness along her sensitised flesh and making her moan some more.
Her legs trembled like stalks of wheat in a rain storm. She leaned her forehead against the cool tiles as well as her hands. ‘Yes.’ Exactly like that.
He repeated his exquisite torture. And again. Over and over, each thrust of his fingers more erotic, more persuasive. His lips nuzzled her neck then bit gently, possessively, and his voice was thick with arousal when he said, ‘You’re so hot. So deliciously wet.’
His explicit words, the skilful way he touched her, as if he’d known her body for years, the sound of his voice against her ear sent her soaring up, up, up. Over the silky precipice on a low heartfelt cry, her body convulsing around his fingers.
‘Oh. Wow,’ she whispered when she’d got her breath back. His hands trailed over her thighs, then away.
But when she finally turned, she saw nothing but steam and a trail of water across the tiles. He was gone.
Like a dream.
How did you walk into a room to face your boss as if you hadn’t just been given the most intense orgasm of your life? Sophie wondered as she stared at her reflection in the bedroom mirror. She adjusted the collar on the cream dress and asked herself how did you face that boss, the one who’d given you that orgasm, over a business dinner as if your private parts weren’t still on fire and already aching for more?
Grabbing her jacket and purse from the chair, she headed for the living room. She was about to find out.
He was wearing a charcoal suit and baby-blue pinstriped shirt with matching blue tie and watching the local news on the ginormous flat-screen TV on the wall. His short hair was still damp and his fresh foresty scent drifted in the warm air.
His gaze flicked to hers across the expanse of tiled floor. Dark, hungry, slightly desperate. As if he wanted to eat her alive and wanted nothing to do with her at the same time. And she could hardly blame him. As earth-shattering as her climax had been, it hadn’t exactly been a mutually shared and satisfying experience.
‘Hi,’ she said, since he didn’t seem inclined to speak.