Page 53 of Claimed By my Father's Enemies
"Please," I say. "No bad pussy jokes this early in the morning."
He laughs, and I laugh with him, while he leans in and kisses me full on the mouth. It's warm, certain and entirely easy.
He pulls back saying. "I need a shower."
He stands. Takes two steps toward the door. Stops.
Turns back around, and there's exactly half a second of warning in his face before he grabs me off the bed. I shriek and swat at his butt when he hoists me over his shoulder anyway, laughing.
"You're coming with me," he says.
In the bathroom he sets me down in front of the shower. He reaches past me, presses a button, and steam begins to build immediately. When he turns back to me his hands find the hem of his t-shirt, which is all I'm wearing, and he pulls it over my head.
He steps out of his shorts.
He's fully hard, thick, and entirely comfortable about it. I've had him in my hand. I know he is big. But seeing it now in the morning light it’s impressive. I don't bother pretending I'm notstaring. He catches me at it and the corner of his mouth moves. He takes my hand and guides it to him and when I wrap my fingers around him he exhales, controlled at first, and then he breaks.
"God," he exhales. "Your touch."
He pulls me under the water.
It's warm and the pressure is good. His hands start at my shoulders and move without urgency, unhurried and thorough, like he has nothing to do beyond knowing every inch of me. I tip my head back into the spray and let him.
His mouth finds my neck. His hands slide down my sides and I feel every point of contact separately. I put my palms on his chest and feel his heart. It’s beating fast.
His hands slide lower.
His fingers find me and I gasp with pleasure. He works me slowly, I grip his arm, breathe and revel on the fact that he is taking his time. The steam rises around us. His mouth moves to my shoulder, my jaw, the soft place below my ear.
Suddenly, he turns me to face the tiled wall.
One hand flat between my shoulder blades, pressing me gently toward the tile. I go. My hands find the wet wall.
And then he stops.
I look over my shoulder.
He's staring at my back.
I have a tattoo that covers most of it, shoulder blade to hip. Hummingbirds, hibiscus flowers, peonies and trailing vines in full color.
I feel the familiar flicker of uncertainty
"Do you like it?" I ask, when what I really want to ask is“Do you think it’s too much?”
His eyes come up to mine. He holds my gaze and says "It's beautiful" in a voice that is quieter than his usual register, lower, stripped of the polish he usually carries.
He bends his head and presses his mouth to the top of my spine.
Then the next vertebra. Then lower. His lips move through the ink slowly, following the arc of a peony, the curve of a hummingbird wing. I close my eyes, stand still and let him do it. His hands are on my hips and I can feel him hard against the small of my back.
I reach behind me to touch him. He catches my wrist.
"One second."
He steps back. I hear the rip of foil and the quick practical sound of him getting ready and then he's back, the full length of him against my spine. He takes both my wrists and pins them above my head with one hand. His other hand moves down my hip, between my legs, guiding himself in.
He pushes inside me and we both go still.
