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Once I close the door behind us, the lack of sound—no rustling water, no birds chirping, no wisps of wind—makes it seem like I can hear my own heartbeat.
Boyd and I look at each other for a long moment, and then I reach over and latch the lock on the door. Suddenly, his mouth is on mine and his hands are in my hair. I wind my own arms around him, enjoying the feeling of his strong body beneath my hands.
It’s like locking us in gave him permission to let go, and instead of moving at the slow and steady pace he was wanting us to proceed at, he’s put the pedal to the metal.
He walks me backward, the two of us bumping into things as we stumble toward the bedroom. I’m so focused on his mouth on mine, his hands gripping me tight, that not until we’re standing next to my bed do I realize I’m still dripping lake water—only now, it’s on Linda’s nice guesthouse floor.
I pull back from Boyd’s kiss, sliding my fingers in his belt loops and giving him a knowing smile.
“Come with me,” I say, my voice quiet.
With Boyd following behind me, I lead us into the cute little bath off the bedroom. White tile floors, white marble countertops, white clawfoot tub, white subway tile in the shower—white, white, white everywhere, giving the room a bright and clean feeling. Everywhere in this guesthouse looks like it could come from an HGTV home makeover, and I love it.
Right now, though, I’m not focused on the fancy bathroom or the unique décor. I’m focused on Boyd, on stripping us both down and getting us into that shower so we can get nice and clean and nice and dirty.
Thankfully, he doesn’t seem like he wants to pump the brakes any time soon if the size of the bulge in his pants is anything to go by. I press my hand against him and he moans, something low and tortured.
“We need to shower,” I say, stepping over and rotating the handle so the water turns on.
And then I lift my arms, looking straight at him and waiting for him to take the hint.
His expression sobers slightly, and just as quickly as we sped up a few minutes ago, each of us takes a deep breath and decides to slow down. Chooses not to rush. Takes a moment to appreciate what comes next.
Boyd’s hands drop to my waist, slipping under my knit top, his warm fingers scorching me as they touch the skin around my belly. My stomach dips and I giggle, the ticklish part of me unable to be put on pause.
“Ticklish?” he rumbles with a small smile on his face, lifting my top slightly, grazing up my sides and sending shivers rolling through my arms.
I nod but stay silent, allowing him to pull the shirt over my chest, my neck, my shoulders and head.
Once it’s off, he takes in the tiny white bralette I have on. I might have been given curves in the hips and ass, but I’m a little smaller up top.
You wouldn’t be able to tell from the way Boyd’s eyeing me, though, nor from the way his fingers trace the fabric like he’s savoring the moment. One finger drops down and circles my puckered nipple through the material, the darkness of my areola visible through the light fabric. He traces it around and around, the tiny little motion making me clench my thighs together.
Then he surprises me, dropping his face to my chest, sucking one of my nipples into his mouth through the damp cotton. My hands fly to his head, threading into his hair as I tip my head back and let out a soft cry of pleasure at the sensation.
His hands move, shifting the scrap of fabric down and out of the way so he can latch onto me, skin to skin, his impatience overtaking his desire to move slow. The wetness of his tongue, the heat of his mouth, the stubble on his jaw—it’s too much, so much, and I love every second of it.
That original pulsing energy seems to overtake us both again, and we become a flurry of motion, each of us tugging at our clothing to get it off as quickly as possible.
Once we’re both naked, we climb into the shower, the rainfall showerhead soaking us both all over again. Boyd’s eyes never leave mine, even as he closes the glass door behind us and I stand completely naked before him, pushing my hands into my hair to help the warm shower water replace the damp coldness from the lake.
My own eyes dip, taking in the magnificence of Boyd’s body, appreciating the hard, lean muscle and toned chest before dropping down to the thick shaft between his thighs.
Which he currently has gripped tightly in one of his hands. He strokes it a few times, finally allowing his gaze to drop and rove over my naked body.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Being the recipient of the full force of his attention is unlike anything I’ve experienced before, an aphrodisiac that has me lighting up inside and desperate for more.
He steps under the water with me, pressing his lips against mine. My hands caress his hard, naked body, enjoying the firm muscle and warm skin. He does the same, his hands dropping to squeeze my ass, his mouth moving to kiss along bare flesh.
“Time to get clean,” he finally says, something wicked in his tone as he steps back and reaches for a bottle of bodywash.
He squirts a dollop into his hand and then some into mine before he puts the bottle back. Then he’s rubbing his hands together and scrubbing all over his body.
I bite my lip as I watch him, momentarily distracted. Then I jump into motion, rubbing my own soap all over, taking my sweet time and making sure to give Boyd a show.
I start at my arms and then slick up my chest, making sure to apply the suds liberally over my breasts and enjoying the pulse in my belly when I tweak my own nipples.
All the while, his heated stare follows my hands, his mouth slightly open and his own movements stalled.
