Page 60 of Dirty Fighter

My restraint snaps, and I’m on my feet, lifting her into the shower and following her in.

She gasps, muttering something about my jeans before I’m on my knees in front of her. I kiss her hip, her navel. That delicate skin so close to where I need to be.

Holding her steady, I kiss where she’s slippery and wet for me in a way that has nothing to do with the warm shower water sluicing down the curves and contours of her body.

Her fingers sift into my hair, tender and gentle at first… Then gripping tight when I can’t get enough of the taste of her, the feel of her sweet body pulsing for me, her fractured cries when I make her come.

It’s not enough. That’s what I’m thinking as I push to my feet, my jeans stuck to my thighs and my dick so hard the head is two inches above the open top button.

Rowan is leaning against the tile, lips parted, eyes heavy-lidded and fringed dark with droplets clinging at the edges.

“Fucking beautiful,” I mutter, rubbing my hand over the ache in my chest and then slicking my sopping hair back from my face.

This isn’t enough. I know it has to be. Christ, I agreed to what she asked for, and more than that, I understand why it’s all she wants.

But it’s not enough.

Hell, being able to bury my face between her legs every day for the rest of my life might not be.

“Jason?” Her hand traces a lazy path up her belly and over the beaded tip of her breast.

I’m half hoping she asks me to eat her again right now.

Instead, she bites the corner of her lip and hooks a finger in the straining denim at my hips. Brushing her thumb over the head of my cock, she blinks up at me with a coy smile… “You going to let me have all this?”

I huff a laugh, again wondering how it’s possible amid this kind of heat and intensity. But then I’m pulling her into my arms, kissing her beneath the heated spray. Murmuring promises about giving her everything I have, I send a silent thank you to the universe for the unopened box of condoms in my bag and lift her out of the shower.

Rowan

Jason’s jeans hit the floor in a wet heap, and then he’s taking the bath sheet I just grabbed from the hook and wrapping me in it before crouching low to carefully dry my legs.

“So you don’t fall.” This said as he completely negates the justification by snaking an arm beneath my butt and standing, bringing me up with him so my boobs end up about eye level. “I’m a careful guy.”

“Is that right?” I laugh, running my fingers through the damp strands of his hair. This man is beautiful.

“With you, I am.”

It could be a line. It could.

Just some verbal foreplay.

But the way he looks at me while he says it? The way his eyes don’t leave mine as he walks us down the hall to his bedroom and then lays me gently on his bed?

I don’t think so.

Pulling him down with me, we come together with an ease I don’t expect. A sense of familiarity and rightness. Like we fit. Like beneath the newness of being together this way, there is something not new at all.

Like this is how we belong.

It’s crazy.

First, because this kind of thinking is the last thing I want or need, especially as it applies to Jason Stanvic. And second, because this is the only time in my life I’ve felt anything even close to this whirling physical-emotional intimacy and connection.

And third, because I don’t even care how crazy it might be.

I just want it.

Once.