Keira
T hat was The aenergyhotter-than-hellbetween usstandoff. was sizzling. It may have been my delusional
and desperate mind in the past conjuring stories, but what just played out between us wasn’t in my
head. It was real. His bulge was real. It was impossible to ignore. My heart is pulsating as hard as the
throbbing between my legs. Heat pools between my thighs, leaving me tangled up in a knot of desire.
I’m so wet, it’s practically dripping down my thighs. I push off the bathroom door, peel off the t-shirt
and remove my underwear, chuckling at Rhys’s freaked out expression. Poor guy. I thought he was
going to have an aneurysm. I st ep into the shower and adjust the temperature of the water until the
bathroom fogs up with steam. I duck under the rainfall showerhead and gasp. It’s scolding. I play
around with the temperature so I don’t end up looking like a lobster. I shampoo, rinse, and condition in
a snap. I then grab the mesh shower pouf we bought yesterday, pour a copious amount of peony
scented body wash and scrub off the grime from the storm. Closing my eyes, I inhale the beautiful
floral scent. This is living. The water streams down my body like a gentle caress. My skin tingles.
Scratch that. Every inch of me tingles. Even though the water is warm, my nipples pucker to the point
of pain. I press my legs together in the hopes of containing my mounting arousal, but it’s in vain. I
slide a hand down my body, caressing over my belly as I travel lower.
I pause, catching myself. I can’t do this under his roof. That would be wrong. And a little perverted. As
I weigh the war raging inside me, his loaded words from earlier ring in my ears.
“You can’t ever––and shouldn’t try––to imitate a woman’s natural, glorious scent.”
The ache between my legs intensifies. I squeeze my thighs together, moaning. The recurring fantasy of
Rhys bringing me to orgasm with his mouth is within reach. The realization is overwhelming. We’ve
never talked about anything sexual before––other than him echoing my protective big brother’s advice
to remain a virgin until I was thirty.
We crossed a line today. I need release. The idea of solo-play under Rhys’s roof is a little taboo.
Unthinkable, even.
Fuck it. My hand slides between my legs. When my fingers tease my pussy lips, I tilt my head back
with a long exhale. Impatient, I stroke my engorged clit, moaning out my pleasure before applying
more pressure.
Bless leather pants. That was quite an eyeful. I was ready to drop to my knees and beg him to reveal
what I suspect is a huge, thick, pulsing cock.
Damn. I trace circles around my swollen, throbbing clit, relishing each re volution. I switch it up with
rapid side-to-side movements before slapping my pussy, crying out with bliss.
A forbidden thrill courses through me. I wish he were here with me under the spray of the water. I’d
wash his dirty parts... he’d wash mine.
I’d much prefer his hands against my clit, bringing me to orgasm. I’d return the favor with my hand
pumping his cock. Unless he prefers me to use my mouth. I’m okay either way. The idea is so
intoxicating, I place a hand flat against the tiles to steady myself.
I need more. My fingers skate faster over my clit as I moan. I ease two fingers inside my pussy,
sinking them all the way in, filling me. I let out a strangled cry at the intrusion as my muscles contract.
I curl my fingers up and pump in and out in a slow, sinful rhythm.
This is so intense. I’ve pleasured myself hundreds of times thinking of him, but he’s never been this
close.
I pick up speed. I’m there. I’m so fucking there. Dear God— A knock at the door—as I’m about to
dive off the cliff—interrupts my naughty solo session.
I shriek. “Mom invited us over for dinner tonight.” Rhys’s voice booms from the other side of the
door. “Hurry up.”
There’s nothing like the mention of your fantasy’s mother to kill a perfectly good orgasm.