He stroked the washcloth across the lowest lumps of his abdominal muscles, rubbing away the sweat and salt and faint male musk of his skin that she remembered on her tongue. Her face had been right where that rough washcloth was, breathing and tasting him as he shoved his cock down her throat with wild exultation in his dark eyes.
Her fingers stroked across her folds, and one fingertip slipped inside to graze her clit. The dirty pleasure of it spiraled through her. “So, are your tattoos the same as your friends’?”
Maxence said, “No, the ones on our back don’t match. These do, sort of.” He extended his arm where the three shields were tattooed around a triangular design. “The ones on our backs are all different, but Arthur designed all of them.”
Her finger circled her clit just like his tongue had when they’d been in Paris. “You said Arthur was the—introvert? And the one who left the suits in Paris that you wore?”
Maxence smiled and looked up at the ceiling, emitting a sexy chuckle. He flung the washcloth across his back and stroked the cloth over his heavy flesh and ink. “He pretends not to be, but I’ve seen him walk into his computer office and not come out for eighteen hours without talking to anybody, and then do that for weeks on end. And yes, he designed them. I told him what I wanted, but he made some adjustments before he gave the design to the artist.”
“What did you—want?”
“I wanted an illustrated cross, a monochrome outline of a cross filled with Celtic knots or some other patterns. Sort of a graphic illustration. Arthur told me that he had altered the design substantially, and part of the project for the three of us was to have his art with us wherever we went. I keep thinking about finding a design of a Celtic-knot cross for my pectoral.”
He smoothed his hand over his heavy chest, presumably where he would allow someone to touch and carve the design into him.
As his fingers brushed over the round part of his pec, the memory of his hands on her breast, grasping and pinching her, filled her mind, and her finger grazed her clit again. She rolled her fingertip around the sensitive spot.
Maxence continued, “The tattoo looks like falling lines of water at first glance, like a waterfall, but it’s not. The surfaces of Arthur’s designs always hide his true intentions, which may be the best description of Arthur himself that I’ve ever thought of. He said that the overall pattern that you recognize at first glance was water rolling down my back as I emerged from the sea.”
He turned, showing her his entire back.
Trails of real water trickled over his thick muscles and down his spine like she wanted to do with her fingers and tongue. With him turned away, she rubbed deeper between her folds. Pleasure awoke in her, and her body began to tighten.
“But that’s not what the real design is,” he said.
He rinsed out the washrag again in the little pot of water beside his bedroll, squeezing it again in his strong fist. Rivulets of water trailed from between his fingers and across his knuckles, falling back into the pot.
The tension in the knot between her legs was tightening, almost at a peak, but she couldn’t move her hand enough to finish herself because he would see.
The water ran down his fist.
His underwear was a dark line around his tight, rippled waist, and his skin glistened because he was wet.
“Aren’t you going to,” she gasped a little, “wash anything else?”
His head turned, and he stared at her.
She pressed her lips together and barely inhaled through her nose, but her heart was racing, and she felt her eyes flutter, rolling just a bit.
Maxence’s voice was deep, almost hoarse, as he whispered,“Harder.”
“Wha-what?”she whispered.
His voice was a growl, and he didn’t look away from her eyes. He moved forward so that he was close, nearly hovering over her, and he whispered, “Don’t come yet. Rub your fingers harder against your clit and roll them. Feel how slick you are. Slip one finger inside yourself and press forward, pinching your clit from the inside.”
She did, and she couldn’t look away from his dark, knowing eyes as he watched her.
“Harder,”he said, his whisper and breath sliding over her lips and throat. “Now two fingers inside yourself, and stroke yourself deep and hard, the way I want to bury my cock in you. Don’t come. Don’t let yourself. Fuck yourself like it’s me taking all of you, like my cock is rubbing inside and fucking you until your clit is so raw that it hurts not to come.”
She rubbed her fingers inside herself and brushed her knotted clit more lightly and to the side because he didn’t want her to come yet, and she wanted his deep voice to tell her what to do. The tension was unbearable, and the tent spun.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
She nodded, and her teeth biting her lip was delicious pain that kept her from dying.
“Do you want my cock?”
She nodded harder.
