She arched into his touch, her back curving, and the movement caused her ass to brush against his engorged tip. The contact was almost too much, and he bit down on the inside of his cheek, determined not to let her see how out-of-control he felt.
She sighed, the sound vibrating through both of them. “That’s really nice,” she murmured, voice thick with pleasure. “That feels so good.”
He focused on the lather, on the way her hair slipped between his fingers, on the simple ritual of taking care of her. He rinsed the shampoo, kneading her head as the soap ran down her back and shoulders in shimmering rivulets. When he repeated the process with the conditioner, she leaned back even further against him, her head resting on his chest, her hands braced on his thighs for balance. He nearly lost it—the sensory overload of her skin against his, the heat, the scent, the primal way his body wanted hers.
With more self-control than he even knew he possessed, he finished with her hair, but she didn’t move away. Instead, she reached behind her back and her fingers wrapped around his shaft and squeezed. His hand reached out and braced on the wall as his knees nearly buckled. She began to move her hand up and down, up and down, and he wrapped his arm around her waist, his hand slipping between her legs and finding her swollen clit.
She gasped as his fingertip flicked over the swollen nub. Instead of replacing the showerhead, he switched it to a more focused spray and brought it down between her legs, the spray against her clit as his finger also teased her. She managed just three more strokes, and then she grabbed his hips with both hands and pulled him flush against her. His rock-hard cock nestled between the cheeks of her ass, and she ground back against him, slow and deliberate.
Keeping the spray between her legs, he moved his other hand up her torso and cupped her breast, thumb and forefinger rolling her nipple until she gasped, then pinched it, squeezing just hard enough to make her arch her ass into him. He thrust his hips, grinding into her, fucking her ass cheeks, as he watched her shudder and tense and soften, watched her body translate sensation into pleasure until there was nothing left but her and the moan that spilled from her lips.
Every sound she made, every tremor in her body, was a feedback loop to his brain. His steel rod slid up and down, swelling against the friction of her firm fleshy mounds, feeling the heat of her body, the slickness of the water as it dripped down her back, and the wild need that matched his own beat for beat.
The pressure was building in his balls as a lightning strike of bliss shot through him. He was about to lose control when he felt her legs begin to quake and quiver, her stomach flinch, and her nails dig into the muscle on his upper leg.
Her orgasm hit her in waves, one after another, she cried out until her limbs went limp. As soon as he was sure she’d come, he let himself go. Pleasure whipped through him in a tingling tornado as every muscle tensed. He held her tightly to him while he shot white-hot spurts onto her lower back. His chest pressed to her spine, his mouth buried in the curve of her neck as his fingers wrapped around hers, keeping her in place. The groan that escaped him was guttural and unrestrained, the kind of noise he’d never made before, not even in the privacy of his own head.
When he began to recover, he floated back to reality, and her hands were braced on the tile as she panted, catching her breath. With infinite care, he rinsed her lower back and turned off the water. He wrapped her in a towel and lifted her off her feet, carrying her to the bedroom as though she were made of the finest China.
She was limp in his arms, her muscles loose and spent, her expression soft with the afterglow of pleasure. He dried her off with gentle, methodical movements, then pulled a clean shirt over her head. She didn’t resist, just watched him, eyes heavy with sleep but still sharp enough to catch the way his hands trembled. That was an experience unlike any he’d ever had before.
“Do you want me to braid your hair?” he asked, knowing she couldn’t sleep with loose wet hair.
She shook her head, her heavy-lidded eyes already closing. “I’m too tired.”
He leaned down to press a quick kiss to her forehead but lingered just a second too long, breathing in the smell of her, the warmth of her skin. He started to move away, to give her space, to sleep on the couch where he’d been sleeping, but she caught his arm in a grip that was surprisingly strong for someone who’d just been wrung out in every possible way.
“Stay. Just tonight. Please. Stay.”
He had no intention of leaving, but the raw vulnerability in her voice made his chest ache and made him want to build her a fortress out of his arms and never let anyone or anything get to her again.
“Here. With me.”
His chest ached as he climbed into bed, and she curled into him like she belonged there, like she’d always belonged there. She fell asleep almost immediately, breathing slowly and evenly, her cheek mashed against him.
AJ stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours, counting the tiny cracks in the plaster, thinking about all the ways this could go wrong, but also about all the ways it already felt right.
He’d never felt more needed or more afraid of fucking it all up.
25
On Main Street,the air was thick with the scents of kettle corn and cider donuts, and the festival lights shimmered off every storefront window, reflecting the parade of costumes.
“Are you sure my eyeliner is even?” Zoya, Poppy’s fourteen-year-old niece, asked for what felt like the hundredth time.
“You’re Wednesday Addams. You’re required to look like you haven’t slept in three days. It’s perfect.”
Zoya’s mascaraed eyes narrowed in suspicion. She hopped onto the wooden sidewalk, angling her body toward the storefront glass so she could glower at her own reflection. “Are you sure?” she asked again.
“I promise. You look so dead inside.” Poppy smiled, and Zoya rewarded her with a smirk.
They were early, but the street was already buzzing. Children—none of them Zoya’s age, who would not deign to be seen trick-or-treating “with a parent”—darted between the tables of Halloween crafts, faces sticky with orange frosting and black licorice. As they passed Brewed Awakenings, a local band set up their amps for a set of ‘Spooky Classics,’ and hipsters inmakeshift costumes argued about whether “Monster Mash” was overrated.
The plan was to meet her sisters to walk around the festival with her nephews and nieces. It was an annual tradition, well, it had become one since their father passed away.
Liam and Frankie came back from their honeymoon the day before, so they were going to meet them as well. And after the festival, Zion was throwing a Halloween party, which Poppy had been looking forward to, but now that it was eight o’clock, she wasn’t sure she’d make it, because she could barely keep her eyes open as it was.
It had been two weeks since she’d found out the news, and somehow it still didn’t seem real. Maybe that was because she hadn’t told anyone. Not her mom, not her sisters, not Miss Carol, not Liam. She had a follow-up appointment with Steph at twelve weeks, and she’d decided after that, she’d start to tell people. Maybe. She just wasn’t sure.
