Afterlife (Knights of the Board Room #4)

Afterlife (Knights of the Board Room #4) Page 12

He slid the zipper down himself, hooked the snug boxers beneath and skinned them off at the same time so she saw the pale hip bone, the light layer of black silk over the pubic area. Then she saw his cock, hard and so remarkably virile a whimper came from her throat. Even if she couldn"t have an orgasm, she prayed for enough moisture to let that slide deep inside her. Maybe she could get a moment in the bathroom alone to slip some oil inside her, to be sure it would work…

Bare, muscular and beautiful, he was now standing in front of her. When he extended a hand to her, she couldn"t help that her fingers were still trembling. Heavens, she hadn"t stopped shaking since he"d come into her apartment, but it seemed to be getting worse now. Making a noise in his throat, he closed the warm strength of his hand around hers. He kept her on her knees with its pressure, a wordless communication. It reminded her of how he anticipated her yoga moves during class. He could be mute and still speak to her more eloquently than anyone she"d ever met.

Pure, painful, irresistible insanity.

She licked her lips, her gaze coursing over the muscles at calf and thigh, the compact strength of his arms, the way his hair brushed his neck. Back down the slope of his chest, over the ridged abdomen, the descent a roller coaster rush that brought her back to what had saliva gathering in her mouth. The desire to suck a Master"s cock had perhaps been the first sexual indicator of what she was. She"d longed to do that to the male who claimed her, have him push her to her knees to service him, give him prolonged pleasure with the sucking, skillful pressure of her mouth.

Her PT lunch friends had once brought up blowjobs, such a crude term. They"d joked about them, most only mildly enjoying or putting up with the act. Some strategized to do it in the shower, so they could more easily and discreetly spit out the release.

She wanted Jon"s come on her tongue, shooting down her throat, his hands flexing in her hair, pulling hard on her scalp as she gave him the orgasm he"d demand from her. Goddess, her breath was getting shorter, and she couldn"t help but sway forward on her knees.

He caught her other hand. “Easy now. You made my cock harder by looking at it with those greedy eyes. It"s so obvious what you need. What you crave.” She closed her eyes. His voice was husky, but she was afraid of what he must be thinking. “Are you teasing me?”

“I hope so. In all the right ways.”

He lifted her up then, turning the shower back on. Testing it first with his hand, he then guided hers in, circling her wrist and turning her palm up to the spray. It aligned their bodies, the point of his hip into the top of her buttock, his chest against her back.

She shuddered again then, the hitch in her throat close to a sob. A bare male body against hers, his erection pressing against her soft, willing flesh. She was torn between arousal and something very like grief, gripping her heart in a fist so tight, she couldn"t draw in a breath. “Jon…”

“I"ve got you. Sssh…” He slid his arm around her waist, his other across her shoulders, above her breasts. Seeing those overlapped forearms, sprinkled with black hair and the veins prominent and smooth on the track up his biceps, made it worse and better at once.

“I can"t—” She cut herself off, twisting in his arms to slide both of hers under his, pressing her palms flat against his back and her face into his throat. His half foot of height difference fitted them together perfectly. Every marvelous inch of his body against hers, hard and soft together. “I"m sorry, I"m so sorry…”

“What are you sorry for, silly girl?” He didn"t push her away, instead holding her close, the shower misting her skin along her back.

Sheer bliss, this offer of comfort to cocoon the disturbing power of her arousal. And he saw her as a girl. Silly girl. “I"m…sorry… You didn"t tell me I c-could…h-hold you.”

“No, I didn"t. I"ll punish you for that later. For now, you stay right where you are.” She heard tender humor, laced with something else. Again, not pity, but something more devastating. An intuitive caring that saw to the bottom of her soul.

Brushing the crown of her head with his lips, he cupped one palm over her shoulder blade, the other molded into the small of her back, his thumb tracing her spine. His cock pressed into her stomach, his thighs against the tops of hers. Her breasts were mashed against him, a burning need centered where her nipples made contact with his chest. When she shifted, the base of his cock, his testicles, brushed against her mound, her clit. Her breath left her in a short gasp as the feeling rocketed through her, constricting the grip of her arms. She knew thoughts of him had made her moist the other day, and she wondered if she was getting wet again, if something so unlikely could be happening.

Still holding her close, he eased them into the shower, turning her so she had the benefit of the spray. He let her hold onto him as he cupped her face, threaded his fingers in her hair so the water could saturate it. She closed her eyes, tilting her face back, wanting to fully experience the way it felt, those strong hands taking over, taking care. After two days, the cleansing had an emotional as well as physical effect.

He washed her hair. Put in the shampoo, worked it in, rinsed it until it was all out.

But when it came to the soap, he gave her the lavender cake and stepped back, leaning against the wall. “I want to see you wash. I want to see how you touch yourself.” She was steadier on her feet, enough to be self-conscious. But now that her hair was clean, she wanted the rest to be too, to be ready for wherever else this might lead. She rolled the soap in her hands until she had a lather. Usually, she started with the neck and worked downward without lingering, then applied the razor in quick strokes wherever needed with the pink shaving gel propped in the corner. She was glad she had a roomy shower, though not too roomy. She could reach out and touch, but she"d regained enough composure to know she shouldn"t do that again without permission.

His proximity had to be enough.

“Stop.”

She"d made a cautious pass over her sternum and the tops of her breasts with the soap, a motion as functional as a paint brush passing hastily over a wall"s unprotected surface.

“That lather is my hand, Rachel. Show me how it will touch you.” The look out of his blue eyes was an unexpected blast of undiluted male lust. “You know exactly how thorough I"ll be.”

She gave a quick nod. Since she knew she wasn"t brave enough to follow that command while looking at him, she lowered her gaze. Making uncertain circles high on her chest, she started to move lower.

“I"m sure I would cup your breasts as I washed them, pinching the nipples to make sure they were lathered properly.”

He was guiding her, instructing her on how to self-pleasure. While she wasn"t an inept teenager, she was revisiting that awkward uncertainty right now. She quelled the embarrassment, closing her hands around her breasts. It made her thigh muscles hum as he continued. “That"s it. I want to squeeze them, Rachel. I want the nipples to get hard, the areola getting dark and flushed. You have beautiful, large nipples.” His cock, semi-erect during her minor meltdown, was rising once again, and under her avid gaze, it looked as if it would soon be brushing his belly. He wasn"t modest about it at all, leaning there against her tile shower wall, arms crossed over his chest, all his attention centered on her. When she pinched her nipples, rolled them between her fingertips, aided by the slick soap, a whimper caught in her throat.

“There you go. Keep doing that. I"d keep doing it until you were rocking forward in a fucking rhythm against my touch, because your body is gravitating toward what it wants. To be spread on my bed, those legs wide open for my cock. Your breasts tilted up, offering themselves to my mouth. Or maybe you"d like me in your mouth, straddling your neck while your pussy weeps for me. And when I came, I"d move down, clasp those heavy, gorgeous tits around my cock, fuck them as I came, spilling myself on your chest.

“Oh God,” she whispered. “Yes.”

Her gaze flickered up, just a quick look, to see blue fire. Then back down, to receive more direction. “Your nipples are nice and stiff now. Move down your stomach, wash everything else, but not your pussy or between your buttocks. Not until I say you can.” She obeyed. He had to remind her twice to keep her pace slow, lingering. As a result, for the first time in a long while she was aware of the feel of her own flesh, the length of thigh, the softness of her skin, the curve of hip. The line of her ribs. Back up to her throat. The sensitivity of that area made her close her eyes briefly, and she could tell his attention sharpened on her reaction. She shaved her legs, bracing herself against the wall as he continued to watch. His gaze lingered between her legs as she had to brace her foot against the porcelain rest provided in the corner.

At that angle, he could see her pink, flushed sex. In the shower, it might look moist and ready, whatever its true state was. She wanted to find out, but he"d told her she couldn"t touch herself there. Plus, she was afraid she would find what she usually found. A bare hint of true lubrication, but something dammed up inside her, holding the natural fluids back.

Uneasy now, she placed the razor back in its cradle. She"d done her pubic area and armpits, which had brought her self-consciousness back, since those areas required less elegant contortions than the legs. He"d noted every shift of her muscles, the creamy track of soap, the water pattering down upon her. Five minutes had passed since he"d said anything. His focus was unnerving, yet also captivating. Then she was rinsed and clean, all of her but those two parts he"d specifically forbidden her to wash.

“Soap.” When he put his hand out for it, she hesitated. She hadn"t showered in two days, after all.

“Maybe I should—”

When those three words left her lips, something changed. Like the strike of a cobra, it wasn"t something she saw happen. His countenance, the arrangement of muscles in his face, the posture of his powerful, shamelessly naked body, all told her she would obey him in this. The weak protest died in her throat.