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That’s what pushes me over the edge. Those words. I need you. They carry such an imposing weight I’m practically crushed under them as my body pours its release into her. I roar, slamming a hand out against the shower wall, struggling to make sure my legs don’t completely quit and fucking dump us onto the wet tiles. Sloane’s trembling in my arms. I’m still granite hard; I don’t stop thrusting into her. I keep going, hammering myself home as hard as I can. It’s only a minute longer before I can feel her tightening around me, the walls of her pussy squeezing me inside her as her eyelids fall closed and her body locks up.
This is it, the reason why I didn’t spin her around. Her lips are slightly parted, and her cheeks have blossomed into a bright crimson color. Those eyelashes of hers are dark against her fine cheekbones, and her eyebrows are drawn together into a tensed frown as a string of expletives fall from her mouth.
“Fuck, Zeth. Oh—shit, goddamn, motherfucker. Fuck me, Zeth. Fuck. Ahh, shit. Ah, ZETH!”
It’s like music to my perverted ears.
Her body falls limp against me, and I know I don’t have a chance of putting her down. She won’t be able to stand after that. Not for half an hour or so, anyway. I hold her to me, and I turn off the shower. Sloane’s head lolls against me; she ends up resting her cheek on my shoulder, which pretty much knocks the fucking wind out of me. She just rests it there against me, like this is the safest she’s ever been.
I’m not ready for her to be covered up yet, so I carry her, legs still wrapped around me, through to my bedroom, where I climb up onto the bed on my knees. I bend forward and I place her down in the middle of the mussed-up sheets.
When I lean back, she’s gazing up at me with a sleepy look on her face. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck! What would I normally do right now, if this were any other girl? I was never enough of an asshole to make my conquests get dressed and get the fuck out of my sight straight away, but I sure as fuck didn’t wanna hang out with them, that’s for sure. I would leave. I would vanish like motherfucking Houdini. But with her…
I sink down onto my stomach and I trail my hand down her body, pushing her legs apart.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Signing my masterpiece.” I can feel the evidence of my presence inside her body. With my fingers coated in my own come, I trace them up through the folds of her pussy, making her shiver, and then up higher. Over her thighs. Her hips. Her stomach. Her breasts. The sexy fucking hollow at the base of her throat. Sloane just lies there, letting me mark her, watching with an intense look on her face. When I’m done, she catches hold of my hand and brings it to her mouth; she slowly licks her tongue at my fingertips, and then shudders as she takes my index and middle finger into her mouth.
No woman has ever done that before. No woman has ever made me want to claim her. And no woman has ever claimed me in such a way in return.
A part of me wants to run like fuck away from the primal urge I’m experiencing to keep this woman…but then again, another very large part of me wants me to say fuck it. Because I know I will kill any other man who tries to touch her. I will kill any other man who dares to fucking look at her. I will destroy anyone and anything that threatens to ruin this. There’s very little point in trying to fight that.
The sound of the television tells me Lacey is awake. I’m beginning to get used to this rhythm of life here in the warehouse, although Zeth’s early morning wake-up call isn’t something that’s happened before. Not that I couldn’t get used to it if it does become a regular occurrence. Zeth’s hands have traveled all over me in the last half an hour—I haven’t questioned it. That feels like a dangerous thing to do, and I don’t want to risk him stopping because it feels really, insanely good, but as soon as he hears the television it’s like an electric shock runs through his body. He stands up, scrubbing his hands over his face.
“I better get out there.”
I prop myself up on my elbows, watching him as he pads completely naked and barefoot into his en-suite bathroom. Back to the scene of the crime. I’m treated with a glorious view of his behind as he vanishes through the door. “Come get clean, Sloane,” he says.
He’s right; I am dirty, and not just externally. Because a sick part of me doesn’t want to go shower. It wants to just get dressed and go through the day, knowing that he’s all over me. Knowing that his come is still marking my skin. It’s absolutely, socially, unequivocally wrong to go around covered in another person’s bodily fluids, though, so I follow him into the bathroom. He’s waiting for me there, one hand leaning against the wall. He points into the shower, where my saturated PJ bottoms are still wadded up in a wet heap on the tiles.
“In,” he commands.
“Are you coming with me?” My body probably isn’t ready to receive any more of his attention, and yet at this point I’d be willing to try. Zeth shakes his head, though.
“Not this time.”
I climb into the shower and turn the taps on, wondering what the hell he’s going to do in here while I shower; we are so not at a stage where I’d be comfortable with him conducting the grosser of the triple-S preparations boys usually complete in the morning. Shower and a shave I can cope with, but nothing that requires him sitting down on that toilet. I soap myself up, using his extremely manly looking black bottled shower gel, and then I begin to massage it into my hair.
Zeth leans back against the wall, watching me. There’s a flat look on his face; I’ve learned when he looks like that there’s usually a lot going on inside that head of his. I know there’s no point asking him what he’s doing, so I just wash my hair and body, and I let him watch. When I’m done and rinsed off, I step out of the shower into the massive towel he’s holding out for me.
