It stays smaller, quieter, as I splay one hand across her chest, my thumb in the divot of her throat, and slide the other under the water. It’s warm and so is she, and she’s slippery with the bubble bath, and the noise she makes when I move my palm over her nipple buries itself in my hindbrain so I can think about it forever. It’s flat with the warmth, but I stroke my thumb over it slowly, circling, and it stiffens until I can pinch it between two fingers, gently at first, then harder until she squirms.
“Too much?” I murmur. Andi swallows, her eyes closed.
“Almost,” she says, and I let off a little. “But not quite. You could do it again.”
I do. I touch her almost everywhere I can reach and catalog the results, sorting them into categories so I can come back to them again and again. Andi gasps and moans quietly and bites her lip sometimes, tells me harder and softer and more. Her hand digs into the back of my neck and a rivulet of water makes its way down my spine, inch by inch.
Andi inhales sharply when I reach the inside of one thigh, her legs already spread underneath the water. Her skin’s soft and the way she yields when I squeeze makes me a little dizzy along with the way she moves, hips rolling. I think she braces her foot against the other side of the tub and leans even further into me, one pink nipple peeking above the water. I’m so hard it hurts, and the slight friction where I’m pressed against the outside of the tub isn’t doing shit.
“Can I,” I start, and swallow hard. “Get you off?” I finish, stroking the spot where her thigh meets her hip. I can’t see anything under the water so I’m doing it all by feel, my arms in the tub up to my biceps, my shirt soaking wet, water dripping onto the floor.
“Yes, please,” she says, the politeness of the words destroyed by the way she sounds, all ragged and breathy. For me. Because of what I’m doing with her, here, in this tub, and the thought makes me lightheaded.
“Show me what you like,” I tell her before I can ruin this by thinking. “And show me how you like it.”
“Fuck,” she whispers without opening her eyes, then grabs my hand, her fingers on top of mine. It’s a little clumsy but then I’m stroking her lips, sinking between them for a moment, sliding upward until her whole body gives a tiny, involuntary jolt that makes my mouth go dry.
“There?” I ask, lips against her ear, and stroke her clit again, this time with two fingers. Andi just turns her head and nods into my neck, her hips pushing up and into my hand as I move in slow, lazy strokes.
Andi makes beautiful, perfect noises against my neck. Every couple of strokes she jolts again, her hips bucking, her hand digging into me. Her breathing picks up, faster and harsher, and she whimpers, I swear to God she whimpers and there’s real chance that I’m going to—
“Can I—?” she says, her hand back on mine, though she doesn’t wait for an answer, just positions my fingers at a slightly different angle, changing the pressure.
“Like that?” I murmur, trying to obey her with every cell in my body.
Andi just huffs and I can feel her bite her lip, positioning me again. I’ve never paid more minute attention to something in my life, but she makes a frustrated noise and wriggles, her hand around my wrist, pushing my hand into her like she needs more.
“Sorry,” she whispers, after a moment, voice edged with desperation. “Sorry, fuck, I’m so close, it’s just—"
Her hand slides under mine, our fingers fitting together as she rubs herself in small, tight, fast circles and moans into my neck. I pull my head back so I can see her, my hand never leaving hers.
“This is how I make you come?” I ask, her eyes heavy-lidded and her lips parted. “Just like this?”
“Yeah,” she whispers, her eyes fluttering shut.
“Fuck, Andi,” I whisper, my brain a perfect blank but my mouth working anyway. My fingers tighten microscopically on hers and an urgent, desperate noise comes out of her mouth. “You look—this is so fucking hot, Andi, I want to—”
She cuts me off with another noise and turns her head to one side, mouth open and back arched and our fingers not stopping for a second. It’s unmistakable and glorious and loud and hands-down the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. I watch her jolt through the aftershocks, biting her lip like it’ll muffle the sounds she’s making, settle a hand on her inner thigh when she moves hers away, and then her other hand is tangling in my hair, hard enough that it nearly hurts, and she’s pulling my mouth to hers in a hot, wet, open-mouthed kiss.
Holy shit. Holy shit.
“Jesus Christ,” I say, against her mouth. My hand is on her soft, plush inner thigh, and I squeeze. Andi makes a tiny noise, then huffs out a laugh.
“That was,” I start, but then we’re kissing again, both of us half-twisted over the wooden lip of the tub, messy and wild. “Can you do that again?”
“Do what?” she asks, her face bright red. She’s still breathing fast. “Come?”
“Yes,” I say, and my mouth is back on hers, my hand stroking her inner thigh.
“Probably not right now unless you, uh, have a vibrator with you?”
“Fuck,” I grumble, and determine to start carrying a vibrator with me at all times. “You sure?”
“Rolling up your sleeves didn’t work,” she says, tugging lightly on one. I look down. It’s still above my elbow, and Andi is still naked and wet and warm, so I have no idea what she’s talking about. “You got wet anyway.”
She is correct. “Oh,” I say eloquently, and rub my other hand down the front of my shirt. It’s also wet, but I’m having a hard time attaching that fact to any particular meaning right now.
Andi turns around in the tub, legs bumping the sides and water sloshing, until she’s facing me with her forearms resting on the wooden edge of the tub.
“You could take it off,” she suggests.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
ANDI
Gideon stares at me. His lips are deep pink and slightly parted, red across his cheekbones, his dark hair curling at the ends. He’s still got one hand on his chest where there’s a deep, dark V of water on his tight gray shirt. He’s on his knees on the bathroom floor, and in the silence sudden trepidation slices through me.
Shit, is this too much? Am I going too fast? I’m telling him to take his clothes off and get into a bathtub with me, while he’s probably got plenty of baggage around sex because how could he not with the way he was raised?
“Or, if you—”
I stop because Gideon abruptly sits back on his heels and pulls his shirt off, and there’s nothing quite like watching a hot man take his shirt off because you asked him to. Told him. Whatever. It shows off all his arm muscles, his wide shoulders rippling as he yanks it over his head then gives his hair a little shake. The hair on his chest is a shade darker than the hair on his head, all of it slicked down over a broad torso that’s just as heavily muscled as the rest of him, thick in a way that suggests a lot of lifting rocks and chopping wood or whatever. The slick, dark hair narrows over his stomach, a dark line past his belly button and under the button of his jeans.