A red-hot blush assaults my cheeks and I yank my hand from my jeans like my pussy is lava. “That’s rich coming from the guy moaning his ex-wife’s name while he fucks his fist in the shower!”
Rust laughs and I realize he hasn’t stopped stroking himself. “Old habits die hard. Your name is still the onlyone I utter when I pretend I’m stretching your tight cunt with my cock.”
“You can’t—” I gasp for air. “You can’t just say things like that! We’re over. We’vebeenover for more than a decade!”
“Are you tellin’ me to stop? If you really hate this so much, why were you touching yourself?”
I grit my teeth, feeling called out.
“Don’t be shy, Trouble. C’mere.”
The authority in his voice sends a shiver through me. I’ve never heard him sound like this before.
Rust raises his index and middle fingers, making a come-hither motion. I step into the bathroom like he’s tied a string around my waist, tugging me forward.
“That’s my good girl. Much better.”
Every word from his mouth is like a zap of lightning to my pussy.
He pulls his lower lip between his teeth and his eyes follow the curve of my body. My skin prickles like he’s undressing me with his gaze.
“Tell me the truth: did you touch that sweet cunt while you were watchin’ me?”
I suck in a sharp breath. “Yeah.”
“Show me what you did to yourself.”
Trembling with adrenaline, I slide my hand into my jeans and under my panties. I dip a finger into my entrance, rubbing the heel of my palm over my clit. With every shallow thrust, I’m rapidly approaching an orgasm.
Rust rumbles a chuckle. “I know that expression. You’re about to come.”
He remembers such an intimate detail about me?
Normally when I have sex, it feels like a performance, too. Always show my best side, make sure the light hits mybody just right. Don’t be too loud. Or too quiet. Don’t demand too much. Don’tbetoo much.
But around Rust, the mask I wear for the world is transparent. He sees right through me. No, he seesme.
“Be honest,” I say breathlessly as I rub myself. “Are we making this weird?”
He laughs darkly. “Hate to break it to you, Trouble, but it doesn’t get any weirder than a morning hike to the swamp to toss in a corpse. I guess some folks would call it romantic.”
“How is that romantic?”
“Other couples have matching mugs. We have matching fingerprints on evidence. Now that’s real commitment and trust. Which leaves me with one question: what else do I have to do to get you in this shower with me so I can fuck your brains out?”
Covering up my crimeisthe most romantic thing a guy has ever done for me.
Forget flowers. Give me a man who’ll bury my dead bodies and invite me to have shower sex after.
“And I really don’t have to worry about a girlfriend coming home to surprise us?” I ask tentatively.
“I’m free as a bird. And I promise if you let me, I’m gonna be so fuckin’ good to you. I’ll make you come until those pretty, thick thighs shake and you’re a tremblin’ mess in my arms.”
My knees sag. Where does he get these banger lines? Is somebody feeding them to him through a waterproof headset?
His head tilts thoughtfully. “Do you expect me to ask if you got a boyfriend in the city?”
“No boyfriend. I actually gave up on dating long ago.”
