Page 54 of Claimed By my Father's Enemies
I feel him stretch me open, deep and complete, and my breath leaves my body.
He starts to move.
Long strokes first. Slow enough that I feel every single inch of him. Then faster, building pace, alternating rhythm until I can't predict him, until my hips are chasing him.
His free hand circles my clit, steady and deliberate. The tile is cool under my palms and the steam is hot everywhere else. His mouth finds the back of my neck and stays there. A holding bite that keeps me in place. His grip on my wrists tightens. And I come with my forehead pressed against the wall, shaking, his name half-formed and broken in my throat.
He slips out of me and sinks down behind me, pulling me by my hips to his mouth.
"Adrian, I can't—"
A single sharp tap against my pussy. Not hard. Enough to short-circuit my brain.
"Yes, you can," he says, against me. "Give me one more."
He uses his tongue and two fingers and I try to grip the tiles until my knuckles ache. And I give him one more. It rolls through me in waves, and I am still shaking when he stands.
He turns me around. His hands find the back of my thigh and lift. I wrap my leg around him. He pushes back inside me, and this time there is nothing patient or measured about it. He drives into me with a rough urgency that I feel everywhere, and I hold onto his shoulders and go with it. A handful of deep, hard strokes, his jaw goes tight against my temple and he comes with his hands locked on my hips.
The water runs over both of us. He presses his forehead to mine.
After a moment he reaches for the shower gel and pours some into his palm and starts to work it across my shoulders. He moves slowly, lathering down my arms, my back, slower over the tattoo. I take the bottle from him and return the favor, my hands moving across the width of his shoulders, the planes of his back, and we don't say anything, just stand close in the steam while the water rinses everything clean.
He bends to press his mouth to my wet hair once, briefly.
He gets out first. When he returns he is holding a white fluffy towel that he wraps around me. He takes my face in both hands and kisses me hard on the mouth.
He finds me another t-shirt and sweatpants. I do what I can in the bathroom mirror with wet hair, and men's clothes hanging off me in every direction, which isn't much. I feel better than I look and that'll have to do.
He's leaning against the kitchen counter when I get there.
"Do you want to go out for breakfast? I don't have much here." A pause. And then without much intention behind it, "Or I can order in, if you'd rather stay…"
And just like that, reality comes barging in. Quiet and inevitable. This is the morning after. And I can tell by the change in the way he is looking at me that this is the moment to go.
"It’s best if I go," I say. "I'll grab coffee on the way. I need to get my truck."
He nods. Doesn’t add anything else. And proceeds to shoo the cat out, with limited success. The cat is unimpressed.
"Why are you shooing him out?" I ask.
"Because this is not his house." He replies drily.
"I thought it was your cat. He seems very comfortable here."
"He's made himself comfortable," Adrian says, getting the door halfway closed before the cat slips back through. "And now he has overstayed his welcome."
"What's his name?"
Adrian looks at me flatly. "I don't know. He. Is. Not. My. Cat."
He gets the balcony door fully closed this time, the cat watching from the other side with visible contempt.
"He seems to think otherwise."
"Tough." Adrian steps back from the door. "I don't do long term."
Noted. Might as well be me on the other side of the door.
