He demonstrates the theory quite ably, curling his fingers around the back of my neck, soapy fingers sliding over the skin behind my ears, tugging at the lobes while the bubbles pop, the touch incredibly sensual, invasively intimate.
“Then while you’re resting back against me, I’m going to slide my fingers between your thighs…” He holds me upright while his hands wander according to his spoken directions. The slippery feel as the rough pads of his fingers graze against the soft skin sends coils of desire snaking through my core. “I’m going to create so much lather, you’ll look like you’ve got a platinum pussy, then I’ll slide them further, curling them inside you, soaping you inside and out.”
His knee catches against the underside of my buttocks, gently lifting until my toes are an inch off the ground, making me feel weightless.
I grip his supporting arm so tightly, my fingertips make divots along his forearm. Then I reach up, curling my hand around the back of his neck, wishing I could tug his face down to kiss me, wishing I could reach behind me and wrap my fingers around a hardening cock.
Just the thought sends a pulse straight to my clit, making it swell as the pads of his fingers rub near the stretch of sensitive skin, setting the muscles in my thighs fluttering and twitching.
His knee presses more insistently against my backside, raising and lowering me in a rhythm, forcing me back and forth against his fingers until I give a strangled sound somewhere between a whimper and a moan.
“That’s the noise I want,” he whispers, voice almost savage as he continues to lift, to fondle, to stroke.
My nipples harden into peaks as signals bounce from one sensitive spot to another, inviting every erogenous zone along to the party.
“I’m going to wring that noise from you every morning of every day, I swear to god.” His fingers burrow farther between my legs, one bending to slide inside me, the path so slick that even the soapy water can’t offset its slippery welcome. “Make it for me again now, angel, and I promise to make you feel so good.”
The sound slips from my lips again, unable to stop it even if I wanted to.
And Maddox lives up to his promise, satisfying every need before I can even fully form it as a thought, leaving me helpless as the pleasure steals away my physical control, utterly content.
CHAPTER TWENTY
EVIE
“No, no, no,”Dahlia squeals, grabbing the phone from my hand and posing beside me. “You’ve got to get the angle with the mirror and the lighting, and twist your face so your good side hits the… There! That’s the shot.”
It’s Sunday, a fortnight since I moved into the school dorm, and we’re at the largest shopping centre in town, trying to find outfits for the Easter Ball.
The event is still a month away, but Dahlia insists we can’t leave it any later to buy our gowns or the seamstresses won’t be guaranteed to make any needed adjustments in time.
She hands my phone back with a new photo a hundred times more glamorous than the one I attempted. A sigh escapes my lips. “You make these look so good. Are you trained in photography?”
The laugh tells me before the shake of her head. “No. But I was born taking selfies. If aggressive social media strategies count as training, then maybe.”
We’ve already spent four hours shopping but Dahlia still has stamina to spare. I’m too nervous to commit to a purchase, a trait she doesn’t share. At all.
“Look at these,” she cries, tugging my arm when I’m about to walk past the counter. “Aren’t these earrings gorgeous?”
They are. The delicate gold hoops are three inches in diameter, the metal surface scuffed and misshapen to make them look handcrafted.
“Can I try these on?” she asks the nearest sales lady who rushes forward to comply. I take a step to the side and the woman’s eyes narrow as she quickly scans me from head to toe and places me in the not-worth-my-time pile.
Even with my new hair style, fancy makeup, and expensive clothing, I still broadcast the wrong signals. I’m used to not fitting in, but it stings. Another burden Maddox lifts from my shoulders, day to day.
The metal fastenings are sprayed, then Dahlia slips off her current studs, swapping them out for the new pair.
“Aren’t they divine?”
“They’re beautiful and suit you perfectly,” I say, leaning over to inspect the price tag and immediately wishing I hadn’t. “Did Maddox say what the limit on his card was?”
“I don’t think there is one,” Dahlia trills, nodding to the saleswoman who places her discarded pair into the box, wrapping it for purchase. She frowns at my discomfort. “If we strike one, we can just send him a text to raise it. I doubt he cares. Now concentrate. Pick something to buy soon, or I’ll feel bad about myself.”
“We can’t have that.”
I search again with good intentions, but they soon fade. Maddox has shown such skill at selecting clothes for me, I’m a little afraid any clothes I pick won’t reach the same standard.
How he knows what suits me better than I do, I don’t know. All I know is that he does… and it’s playing havoc with my confidence.
