Last Breath (Hitman #2)(38)
Author: Jessica Clare

And I find myself unable to turn her down even though I know this is going to be torture for me. I pull the gun out of my pants and rest it on the edge of the sink. With my other hand, I pull my shirt over my head, but I keep my pants on. I’m afraid if I don’t, I’ll not be able to keep my dick from attacking her.

“Scoot forward, baby doll.”

She does, shivering and shaking even under the hot water. “I know I’m being unreasonable, and I don’t even care.”

I squeeze some of the shampoo from Regan’s bag into my hand. “Lean your head against me,” I order. She does and I’m acutely aware that my bare chest is about two steamy inches from her naked body. And even though I’ve tried to keep my eyes off of her, truth is her figure is stamped into the fibers of my neuro system. Those images aren’t ever coming out. And now I’m adding sensation and smell to the mix. I wonder if I’ll ever fantasize about any other woman.

My fingers fork through her hair and press into her scalp. When she moans, I feel the vibration rip through my body and take hold of my cock. It springs to attention and tries to bust through my zipper to get to her. She doesn’t stop making those sounds, and it’s making me so horny I can barely stand still.

“You need to shut it, Regan,” I bark more harshly than I intend, but goddamn, a man can only take so much suffering.

“I’m sorry,” she says between moans, “but I can’t. It feels too good.”

I could ruin the moment, like I have so many before—with some stupid, sexist comment about how she could bend over and I’d give her a feel good that she’d never experienced before—but somehow I can’t. I let her lean even more heavily against me which causes my side to ache but it’s a sweet pain, one that I welcome because it means she’s touching me. “Your shampoo is done, sweetheart,” I tell her huskily. I turn her so that her pink-tipped breasts are thrust out in front of me, and it takes everything I’ve got to keep my hands in her hair and not drop them down the front of her body, following the path of the water droplets as the soap and water create erotic patterns on the surface of her skin.

She leans back, implicitly trusting that I’ll keep her upright, and I do. With one hand at the nape of her neck to keep her steady, I smooth the clean water over her hair, making sure none of it spills onto her face. Over and over, I let the water wash us—uncaring that my wet jeans feel like a thousand pounds hanging on my hard cock or that the last of the soap streaks were gone five minutes ago. Maybe we would have stayed like this for hours more had the hot water not turned cold.

“All right, baby, out with you,” I said gently. She swims to the surface of conscious thought, her eyes flicking open languorously. There is desire and need in them, and I want to pleasure her. Give me a sign, baby. But she stays silent, and finally I lift her out of the tub and wrap a towel around her and push her right out the door.

Closing the door, I strip out of my jeans and underwear and take hold of my throbbing cock. It really only wants Regan, I can tell, but my palm is the only relief it’s going to get right now. I step into the cold shower and with one hand leaning against the tile, I take my cock in the other.

It doesn’t take long. The cold water doesn’t wash away the image of her body in front of me, the look of pleasure written large across her face as she tipped it backward into the stream of water. In my fantasy she drops lower and unzips my jeans and parts the sodden fabric of the denim. Her delicate hands reach in and pull out my cock. She makes a sound of pleasure—like a hum of want—and then tells me, “You’re so big.” Her eyes are large saucers of green, and her pink plush lips open and cover me.

She never stops looking at me, never stops telegraphing how much she loves this. I can hear the sounds of her moans around my cock, muffled by the thick flesh in her mouth but still audible. My balls draw up and a familiar tension sits low on my spine. Not the first time, I think. I pull away abruptly and lift her into my arms. Pressing her against the tile, I shove into her wet heat, and she screams in my ear that she loves it so much. I imagine that her cunt is tight and wet and hot. Her walls grip me as I slide out, as if she can’t bear to lose even one inch.

Each thrust inside her body is like being hugged by a warm fist. It’s been so goddamn long, and I let out a low moan of relief. My head drops back, too heavy for my neck to support. All my energy is focused on the blood coursing through my cock as I imagine pounding into Regan over and over.

A porn reel wouldn’t sound hotter than Regan’s pants and cries. “You feel so good. You’re so big. I want you so much. Come all over me.” And so I do. I jet into her with long streams of ropey cum that seem to be endless. Only it’s my hand, and the cold water seeps into my nerves, and I finish cleaning off. As good as that felt, I know that it would be five thousand times better inside of her. But I also know that my hand is as close as I’m ever going to get to being inside Regan.

Regan

IT ISN’T FAIR.

I don’t mind that Daniel shoved me out of the bathroom. I kind of expected it, actually. I was selfish enough to ask him to help me shower, knowing it’d drive him crazy and not caring that it did. Maybe in the back of my mind, it was a test to see how far I could push him. How insane with lust I could make him before he broke his word and started grabbing me. Then, maybe, I’d understand him. My brain would go Yep, he’s like every other man, and I could tuck him away into the same mental category that all men fell into now: users.

But Daniel never breaks his word. He never touches me sexually, and by the time he boots me out of the shower, I’m confused and a little sad to leave him behind in there.

I liked being touched by him. I liked that he touched me and I didn’t have to worry. That no one was going to be forcing me to do anything, and that there was only caressing and tenderness. And god, I’ve missed tenderness so much.

I peel the towels off of my body, give my hair a quick rub to soak some of the water off, and then crawl back into bed and pull the sheets tight around my body. I should put clothes on, but I’m feeling weirdly vulnerable.

It’s like I don’t want to get dressed because part of me wants Daniel to come out of that shower and touch me. Show me what it’s like to actually have great sex. Show me everything he can do. Hell, touch me a bit more without strings attached. I’d like all of that. But I can’t ask. I’m the poster child for Stockholm syndrome, right? I should be loathing every man’s touch at the moment, instead of lusting after a man that treats me with tenderness.