He moves to the tub and tests the water. A delicious curl of steam wafts up from the bath, and there’s a sultry warmth in the air. He shuts off the taps and then unbuttons his jeans, pushing them to the floor and stepping out of them. He holds out his hand for me again, and I take it, letting him help me into my tub and move me forward so he can fit himself to my back in the warm water.
His powerful thighs curl up on either side of me, his knees above the water. He pulls me backward with a hand at my belly, so I relax against his chest and feel his hard length press against my bottom.
I feel tight like a bowstring. I’m not sure how I’ll ever relax in this tub with the man I keep promising myself I’m going to stay away from. But then he grabs a washcloth and dips it into the water, soaking it before he wrings it out in his fist, pops the cap on a bottle of shower gel, and pours a heaping amount into the soft terrycloth.
Gently, he glides it up my arms and shoulders and back down again. Up my neck and over my collarbone. He delicately teases my nipples, scraping the material over each tip as he washes me, and then he moves down my belly and between my legs.
By the first brush of the cloth and his knuckles over my center, I gasp, my breath coming out in short bursts. He drops it into the water and lets his fingers tease my swollen flesh. He moves over my clit softly, just enough to make me burn but not enough to get me off, and I whimper.
“Please.”
He moves his other hand up around me to cup my breast and feel the weight in his palm as he flicks his thumb over my hard tip.
“You beg so prettily,” he says just as softly, and then he moves his fingers over my clit faster and faster.
I grip his thighs beside me as I arch my back and rock my hips in time with his skilled fingers. The water slaps and splashes up and over the side of the tub, but I don’t care. I’m lost to the way he plays my body, the way he makes me feel.
“Sky,” I pant.
“That’s it,” he praises. “That’s my good girl.”
My mouth falls open on a silent scream, and I dig my nails into his thighs as I come. Gently, reverently, King turns us so I’m leaned back against the lounger side of the tub, and he kneels in front of me between my thighs. Slowly, he slides inside me and holds me in his arms while he moves his body in and out of mine.
He doesn’t fuck me. What he does is gentle and loving, not rough and harsh, yet no less erotic as we come together. He touches his mouth to mine, and we breathe each other in as we find our release.
Afterward, he pops the drain on the tub and dries us both off, taking extra care with me, making me feel cherished. And then he carries me to bed, where he lays me down and holds me close until I drift off into a peaceful sleep.
And when I wake, he’s gone.
Just like always.
But this time, it hurts even more, because now I know what could have been.
Chapter 10
Not a prayer
“Do you know what you’re doing with this boy?”
Leave it to my mom to call a man like King a boy. I look to her and see she’s watching me closely. I should have known there was nothing I could keep from her. Our relationship has evolved over the years from mother and daughter to friends. She’s the best mom. I know that seems odd, a famous model actually being the perfect mom. Not Stepford perfect, but just a great mother.
If ever there was a person who was nurturing and loving and a natural mother at their very soul level, it’s my mom. She cleaned my skinned knees and wiped my tears, tucked me in every night with a story and a kiss on my forehead.
But as I got older, our relationship changed. We became even closer, if that could be believed. She held me when I cried over my first broken heart, and then the next. She celebrated my first win on the professional circuit, and every win—but also every loss—that came after.
And most of all, she understands that while I may look just like my mom, my personality is so much like my dad, and she loves and encourages that too. We are different people all the way down to our toes, and she has never once tried to force me to be someone I am not.
Even though they divorced when I was very young, they’ve done their best to become and stay friends while they were raising me. And always, always, they loved me and let me know it. I might be the spoiled brat that King likes to call me so often, but I’m not rotten. I just had parents who loved me, encouraged me, and wanted to see me succeed. That’s all. But they never did the work for me. They praised me, yes, but they never helped me cheat or awarded me something I did not deserve.
I think that’s why Bobby’s words from last night felt like they sank deep into my flesh and hooked my bones with their barbed intentions. He wanted to shake me up, put me off my game, and while it infuriated me, it also held a kernel of truth, because my dad would not hand me the family legacy if he felt like I didn’t deserve it. And there’s a small part of me that will always feel like I don’t deserve it, that I’m not actually good enough.
“Adrienne,” Mom calls softly to get my attention. I must have trailed off into my thoughts.
“Yes?”
“You were a million miles away,” she says gently.
“I’m sorry.”
