I watched the water stream over her flesh, traced the path of more than one down to her wet pubic hair with my fingers. A choppy breath tore from her. She moaned my name, along with words I didn’t understand. My brain was too fogged with a raw pleasure I hadn’t experienced since she’d ended us. I’d had sex since then, but nothing had rocked me like this. Nothing had moved me.
Ah, fuck, I really was in trouble.
And still, I couldn’t stop. Nor did I want to. I licked the shower water from Amanda’s belly, and then stroked my tongue over her trimmed curls . . . and lower, until I found her warm flesh.
She snagged my hair in a tight fist, sending pain and incredible pleasure through me at once. “Oh Bren . . .”
With the water streaming over my head, my shoulders, and flowing down my back, and Amanda’s fingers tugging my hair, I lingered for long, delicious moments on her sex, giving myself over to the taste of her, the feel of her, the sound of her. The memory and the reality of her.
It was exquisite. Perfect.
And even more so when, her voice shaky and shallow, she panted my name, held my head hard and came. It had been too long since I’d had Amanda’s release on my tongue. Too long. The warm flow of her orgasm detonated a hunger in me I could only describe as primitive. It wasn’t enough that I’d made her come with my mouth. I wanted to own her, fill her in the most elemental, animalistic way possible.
Dragging my mouth from her receptive flesh, I pressed my face to the soft curve of her belly and curled my arm around the back of her thighs. “Mandy . . .” I groaned.
I’d only ever called her Mandy twice since knowing her – the first time we had sex, our mutual, mind-blowing orgasms shocking me as much as they rocked me; and then when she told me we were done, and I asked her to change her mind.
The fingers in my hair turned to fists and, without a word, she tugged. Hard.
I rose to my feet. I want to say I was controlled and modulated, even romantic (I know, what guy ever uses that word?) but I wasn’t. I was hungry and impatient and undone by an urgency to be inside her, to bury myself to my balls in her tight heat.
“Bren . . .” Amanda rasped as my body slid against hers, as my erection nudged the curve of her sex. “Hurry the fuck up and get inside me. Please.”
“Condom?” I groaned against her neck, on fire.
“Pill,” she moaned back, rolling her hips.
At the single word, I crushed her lips with mine, grabbed the back of her right thigh, yanked her knee up to beside my hip and sank into her in one fluid thrust.
I spend most of my work hours and all of my study hours focusing on the way the human body moves, but there was nothing that could prepare me for how sublimely Amanda moved against me. With me. There was a synchronistic beauty to it. To how our breaths mingled and our tongues slid together. I bunched one hand in the wet hair at the back of her nape and held her raised thigh with the other, driving deeper and deeper into her. And then her nails scored across my back, my shoulders, and she threw her head back and cried my name as her inner muscles contracted around my thrusting dick.
The uninhibited passion and honesty in her orgasm plunged me into my own wild climax. I ground my teeth and rolled my hips and tried not to slam harder into her delicate sex, tried not to surrender to the concentrated pleasure of being one with her again, making love to her again.
Tried and failed. For all my self-deluded determination that I would walk away from Amanda Sinclair unscathed and untouched, I was utterly enslaved by her. Now. In the shower that was meant to be helping me decompress, I had become a creature of sensation and desire ruled by the one person with the power to render me defenseless.
And I willingly surrendered to it. I held her. Close. Drawing in breath after deep, slow breath as the pulse of my orgasm faded from my body.
“Oh, Bren . . .” she murmured against the side of my neck as I released her thigh and nuzzled her temple. “Oh, Bren . . . I . . . I . . .”
A shudder rippled through her. Another one. And then, with a soft, shy chuckle, she raised her face to mine and smiled. “I didn’t realize you were having a cold shower. Sorry about that.”
I laughed, the action causing my now flaccid cock to slip from her. The loss of connection with her body didn’t worry me. We may not have been joined physically, but we were together in a more profound way. “Is this your way of telling me you need me to warm you up, Ms. Sinclair?” I asked.
“This is my way,” she answered, trailing her fingers over my pecs, her gaze following their path as they displaced the tiny beads of cooling water resting there, “of saying it’s time for me to make you some Vegemite toast.”
“Not as much fun, but still very appealing.”
Reaching around me, Amanda killed the shower. We stood chest to chest, hip to hip, our skin wet and glistening. The small room hung heavy with the sounds of our rapid, shallow pants.
I consider myself a very fit guy, it takes a lot to push my breathing and heartbeat beyond their normal rate. But at that very second, I was more physically spent than any insane, high-intensity cardio workout had ever left me.
She closed her eyes, pressed her forehead to the base of my throat for a heartbeat, and then stepped away. “We should probably get dressed first.”
“That definitely doesn’t sound as much fun.” I caught her hand before it slipped free of my chest completely. “I’m sure there’s no rule against eating naked.” I smoothed my hand down her back to squeeze her butt. “Besides, I’ve got over two years of not seeing you naked to make up f—”
Amanda turned, slipped a blue towel from the top rack and left the shower. My throat wanted to get thick at her sudden absence. My chest wanted to get heavy and tight. I wouldn’t let either. Instead, I reached for the towel beneath the empty rack and scuffed myself dry. I wasn’t going to rush out there after her. What had just happened . . . I suspect it had shaken us both. Taken us both by surprise with its intensity.
Fishing a pair of loose gym shorts from my woefully packed bag, I pulled them on commando-style, blasted my armpits with deodorant, cleaned my teeth and raked my fingers through my wet hair. I didn’t look in the mirror. If I did, I’d know exactly what I would see staring back at me: a guy gone. I wasn’t worried that I’d let the exact opposite of what I’d promised myself wouldn’t happen happen. We’d work it out, Amanda and I. How hard could it be?
Physically drained to the point of exhaustion, I dragged in a slow breath, held it for the count of ten, and let it go. Time to address the situation once and for all, so we could move forward. Plan.
Two steps from the bathroom, half naked and still thrumming from what we’d shared in the shower, my brain registered Amanda was not alone. Her sister was standing near the coffee table, her dreadlocked hair a vivid blue, her piercing gray eyes framed with ink-black liner, and dancing with something beyond my ability to comprehend. It dawned on me Chase was seeing me obviously fresh from a shower, as she stood next to her sister – who was wrapped only in a towel with her hair as wet as mine. There was no way Chase couldn’t join the dots.
With one of those smiles that said she knew something about the world no one else did, Chase ran her gaze over me, from the top of my wet head to my crotch and back up to my face again, and then cocked one pierced eyebrow. “If it isn’t the Wonder from Down Under. So . . . tell me, what’s it like to find out you’re a father?”