Instead of sitting beside me, she eases herself down onto my lap.
My breath stutters, sharp and unguarded.
For a split second, panic flares, not from a fear of her, but fear of myself. Of how easily my body responds to her, and the ache that tightens when she settles against me like this is where she belongs.
“Celeste,” I murmur, my hands lifting instinctively, hovering like I’m afraid to touch her wrong. “I meant beside me.”
She leans back against my chest, warm and solid and trusting, her weight grounding me instead of unbalancing me. “You said you wanted to wash my hair,” she says softly. “This just makes it easier.”
God.
Last night I lost control. I know that, I felt how close I came to letting need outweigh care. Sitting here now, with her relaxed in my lap, the desperation hasn’t faded.
My hands settle on her hips, proof that I can hold her without taking. Her body fits against mine with an ease that feels devastatingly familiar.
“You make this so hard,” I murmur, not accusing. Just honest.
She smiles, small and soft, and tips her head back slightly, exposing the curve of her throat. The sight sends a slow ache through me, sharp enough that I have to clench my jaw. “That’s the point.”
I reach for the shampoo instead of responding. I need something to do with my hands that won’t betray me.
I work it gently between my palms before threading my fingers into her hair, slow and careful, massaging lightly. She exhales, melting back into me, the sound wrecks me.
I keep washing her hair, taking my time, memorizing the way she leans into my touch, the way she trusts me with something small and intimate and unbearably meaningful.
Then she moves. It’s subtle at first, a slow shift of her weight, a gentle rock of her hips back against me.
My hands still in her hair for half a second before I force them to keep moving, keep being good. The ache in me flares hot and immediate, a low, feral need snapping tight in my chest.
She does it again, slower this time, deliberate, the curve of her body pressing back into mine with quiet confidence, reminding me exactly how much power she has over me, and how willingly I give it to her.
Fuck.
My jaw tightens as my grip in her hair firms. I tilt her head to the side and watch the soap be washed away before I kiss her neck.
“Careful,” I murmur, voice low, strained.
I want everything from her. I want her pliant and responsive and trusting in my hands. I want to make her feel good until she forgets how to stand on her own. I want to give her pleasure until she melts into it, until every sound she makes belongs to me.
And God help me, I want to take it.
My hands slide from her hair to her hips, anchoring her in place. “Don’t think I don’t want you. I’m holding back for you right now.”
The confession costs me. I can feel it in the way my body reacts, the way control hums tight and fragile under my skin.
She rocks again, and it’s enough to snap something loose in me. A low sound tears from my chest before I can stop it, feral and unguarded.
“Celeste,” I warn again, this time threaded with heat and promise. “If you keep doing that, I’m not going to be able to pretend that I don’t know exactly what you’re trying to do.”
She stills after my warning, and for half a second, I think I’ve finally gotten through to her.
Then she shifts her weight forward and stands. The sudden absence of her against me is disorienting, like losing a point of gravity I didn’t realize I’d been leaning on. My hands hover uselessly for a moment, fingers flexing in the air where she used to be.
Confusion flickers through me.
Before I can ask what she’s doing, she turns and reaches back as she tips her head under the spray, rinsing the conditioner from her hair. Water streams down her breasts, slick and unbroken, tracing familiar paths I know too well.
She hums a sultry tune as she slowly rocks her hips. After a few moments, her hands leave her hair and start following the path the water takes down her body. She starts at her neck, follows the water down to her chest as she uses her fingers to caress her breasts.
