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My fingertips slipped between my pussy lips and slid up to find my clit, the swollen, aching thing that reveled in the pressure the dream lacked. A steady circle of my index and middle finger, and my legs twitched, my lungs squeezing, pulling in a sharp breath. Imagining his tongue circling my clit, my fingers did the job, and I bit back a moan. Electric heat zinged and crackled through me, my awareness shrinking to the point of connection. His lips latched onto me, my fingers in my slick heat, my heart thumping in my chest, my ears, my skull, so close that?—
An ear-splitting crack preceded a shocking flood of water from the wall, the pressure so hard it nearly knocked me over. I screamed, turning toward the offense with my hands out, but when I opened my eyes, soap burned them shut again. Were I not afraid the pressure would detach my corneas, I’d have rinsed off, but as it was, I struggled to stay upright, backing away from the wall, screeching. Blindly, I searched for the opening of the circular shower curtain, but the assault and the acid in my eyes made this rather impossible.
This is how it ends, I thought. Death by shampoo while masturbating to the last man on earth I should ever fuck.
Which was exactly when the last man on earth I should ever fuck burst through the door.
“Jesus Christ,” he said over my screaming and slipping. I heard the pops of the shower curtain tearing on each ring like a machine gun, and before I knew what was happening, he’d wrapped me up in it and was carrying me out of the house like a princess about to be roasted by a dragon.
His skin was hot against mine—as predicted, he was shirtless again—my arms instinctively linked around his neck. Parts of me touched him that should have been in the shower curtain, but I was too frantic to overthink my tit pressed against his blessed, godforsaken chest. He set me down on a stump somewhere outside and disappeared.
“Wait! Where are you going? Is there a towel? Your shirt? Anything?” Juggling the shower curtain, I wiped my eyes with my hands but still couldn’t open them without hissing in pain. “Remy? Where the hell are you?”
“I’m here,” I heard from the direction of the house, the words jolting like he was running. “Here,” he said, panting in front of me. “Lemme help you.”
He wiped my face tenderly with a towel as I adjusted the unforgiving plastic shower curtain.
“What the fuck were you doin’ in there?”
The heat on my cheeks was radioactive. “Oh, I...erm, well, I was?—”
A chuckle. “It was rhetorical, Duchess. Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I mean, if you were wearing any.”
The radioactive flush went atomic.
“Can you open your eyes?”
I pried one open and hissed again.
“So, no. Lemme get some water.”
He disappeared again, and I sighed, sagging. What a mess I must have been, soapy and soaked and wrapped in a plastic sheet. A clear plastic sheet.
Never had I been so mortified in my life.
I heard footsteps in the grass and the splat of water. A hose was my best guess. “Put out your hands. It’s cold.”
Pinning the useless shower curtain under my arms, I held out cupped hands and leaned in, using both them and the stream to flush my eyes for a moment, wishing I could flush my humiliation. When I straightened up, I sloughed off the excess water and held out my hand.
“Towel?”
A towel landed in my palm, and I dried my face, finally able to blink my eyes open.
To find a Remy who was somehow both deeply concerned and highly amused.
“There she is,” he said with that sideways smile on his face.
I groaned.
He laughed, bastard.
“C’mere.” He took the hose and stepped around me. “Tip your head back.”
I did as he instructed, looking through the leaves of the tree he’d deposited me under to the cornflower blue sky, ignoring the sliver of his face that I could see from the vantage.
“You okay?” he asked as he began to rinse my hair with frigid water.
“Other than my pride, I think I’ll survive.”
