Doesn’t leer or judge.
He studies me.
Drinks me in.
“Every inch of you is fucking delectable,” he murmurs. “I mean it, Marigold.”
My name sounds like a secret on his lips. A promise.
And when his hands slide to my waist and he pulls me closer, our bare bodies slick and hot under the spray, I finally believe him.
He sees me.
Wants me.
All of me.
And that might just be the sexiest thing of all.
His hands move slowly—up my spine, over my shoulders, into my hair—and I swear I melt into the water.
Every touch is a question.
Every kiss is an answer.
There’s nothing rushed about it. Nothing practiced.
Just heat and laughter and mouths exploring like we’ve only just learned what it means to want and be wanted back.
He washes my hair like it’s some sacred act, whispering things I can’t quite catch over the sound of my heartbeat.
And when it’s my turn, when I press close and trace my soapy fingers down the line of his back, over his perfect ass, and he lets out a sound that’s part growl, part prayer.
We don’t rush.
We don’t need to.
It’s all in the way our bodies move together—like a secret only we know.
“You’re so fucking soft, Honey. Are you wet for me?” he asks, falling to his knees, lifting one of my legs and draping it over his shoulder.
I’m so turned on, so out of breath by the mere idea of him eating me out, I just let him.
My eyes are wide as he latches onto my pussy with his talented mouth, and I moan loudly.
“Eb!”
I fist his hair as he growls and licks me from ass to clit, long, slow swipes that get faster and faster.
My pussy is aching, clenching on air.
“Please,” I beg.
“You need to come, Honey? Need me to fill this perfect pussy?”
My heart squeezes. My breath catches.
No one has ever talked to me like this before, and I am so here for it.
