“Some women.”
“Are you among those?”
I hesitate.
Yesmeans we’re having sex in this tiny tub.
Nomeans I deprive myself of having someone else wash my hair.
There’s no good option here.
It’s lose-lose.
Except for the orgasm part.
Unless he sucks at shower sex.
Which seems unlikely despite his insistence that he doesn’t know how.
“Have you ever thought this hard in your entire life?” he murmurs.
“No, and it’s rude of you to make me do it before coffee.”
He’s still holding my head under the hot water, face tilted up so that it’s not sluicing down into my eyes.
His other hand brushes the underside of my breast, and his boner pokes me in the belly.
There’s not a single solitary part of me that doesn’t want to grip his cock and stroke it and ask him to lather up and wash me all over, except for that one little brain cell screaming that he’s my sister’s ex.
But we already had sex last night.
And his confidence that Margot wouldn’t want him back for anything more than professional reasons now—that makes sense.
She’s not generally one to set herself up for the same mistake twice.
So what’s one more round in the shower before we leave?
Screw it. “I can’t let you wash my hair while I’m still in my panties.”
He has them at my ankles practically before I’m done with the wordpanties.
When he straightens, he’s closer. His hard-on drags up my leg, brushing my pussy.
My clit aches at the barest hint of attention.
But he tilts my head back into the water again, running his fingers through it, getting it fully damp.
I wrap my hands around his cock and stroke it.
His eyes cross.
Honestly, mine almost do too.
He’s thick and long and hot, and gripping him, stroking him, studying him in my hands, is making me hungry for more.
“Shampoo?” he grits out.
“Sink counter.”
