On the literal other hand, dude was also fingering her clit. With a great deal of know-how, manual dexterity, and commitment.
Yeah. She couldn’t even lie to herself. Clit hand won, hands down.
Like, down between her thighs. Where he was currently working her toward a second orgasm, because apparently the drop from six climaxes to one during a single sexual encounter would bring shame upon him and the entire Boucher lineage. At least, that was what she thought he’d muttered. She’d been too busy coming around his cock and keening into his palm with incredulous pleasure to listen all that closely.
The vanity mirror reflected the fierce lust in his gaze as he watched himself sink into her each time, watched his fingers stroking and teasing and circling, watched her clutch desperately at the sink’s countertop as her legs shook and threatened to collapse beneath her.
He paused, waiting until her eyes met his in the steam-edged reflection. Then he sank his fangs into the side of her neck, the penetration as leisurely as his endless, deliberate pushes inside her. The heat between her legs flared and bloomed everywhere. His bite was a firm pinch of her nipples, the heel of his hand against her clit, a flick of his tongue against her earlobe, the glide of fingertips up her inner thighs, and a wet mouth dragged down her throat.
And she was done. Done.
His rhythm didn’t falter when she came. As she clamped down on his dick and spasmed against his knowing hand, he kept his palm sealed over her open, gasping mouth and the guttural moans she couldn’t bite back, and he held on to his control.
Once she’d gone limp beneath him, though, he yanked the hand towel free of its hook.
“Bite on this,” he told her, the order sharp but quiet, as blood dripped from the punctures in her neck.
Once she obeyed, he ducked his head to lick the carmine trail clean, gripped both her hips, and held her in place as he bit down once more and fucked her to oblivion. Again.
The tight leash over his control had slipped, and only his mouth against her throat muffled his grunts as he pumped inside her. Her final orgasm followed his by a split second, spurred on by how perfectly he ground into her, the way each swallow of her blood might have been a slow, sweet suck of her clit.
When they’d both begun to recover and he’d taken care of the condom, he tongued the small wounds he’d made and studied her flushed face and pleasure-hazed eyes in the mirror.
His own expression relaxed and happy, he smiled at her as he lifted his head. His faded-denim eyes were soft and bright, the curve of his lips fond. He looked young in that moment. Carefree, for all the horror that awaited them later in the day. More Chad than Max.
“You know,” she rasped in a thread of sound. “Ridiculous as Chad was, he was still uber-hot. I didn’t want to, but…sometimes I thought about him when I touched myself.”
“Is that so?” His murmured response against her ear, full of salacious interest, touched off another small, electric aftershock.
She nodded.
“Show me.”
And somehow, she ended up with the hand towel back in her mouth, her fingers swirling around her swollen, sensitive clit while his own fingers rubbed insistently inside her.
So that was orgasm number four, otherwise known as theorgasm that would make Max unbearably smug as soon as she stopped coming. Which would be infuriating, but not nearly as infuriating as it would have been prior to four orgasms.
Afterward, she had to wash her hands, then run water into her cupped palms and drink several times before her parched throat could produce more words. Silently, he gestured toward the stack of disposable cups beside the sink. Silently, she encouraged him to mind his own beeswax via an upraised middle finger.
He grinned and drew an invisible check mark in the air. Then he pointed to her, held up four fingers, indicated himself, and lifted a single pointer finger. In retaliation, she flicked her wet hands to spray his face with water, then counted out six of her own fingers and spread her hands in confused dismay, doing her best to radiate sexual disappointment.
His nostrils flared in a silent snort.
Spoiled, he mouthed.
Well, she couldn’t argue with that. Instead of trying, she simply shuffled over to the shower on jellylike legs and got the water running. As soon as it was lukewarm, she stepped into the stall and began soaping away the sticky evidence of their early-morning activities.
He stripped down and joined her shortly thereafter. A lot of people—beings?—were going to need hot water soon, so when his hands began to wander again, she smacked them away. Despite his aggrieved groan, he kept things speedy and non-lascivious after that.
When they finished up and stepped out, the obvious occurred to her: There wouldn’t be enough full-size towels for everyone, so…okay. The saliva-spotted hand towel wouldsuffice for her water-removal efforts. After all, it wasn’t as if she could simply hang it back on its hook and figure no one would notice freakingteeth marks.
“I need you to be honest with me, ma puce.” He plucked the undersized cloth from her loose grasp and knelt to blot her legs. “Do you truly wish to keep living in the Zone after everything that’s happened this week? Or would you prefer to move?”
It was a fair question. Too bad she didn’t know what to tell him.
When she didn’t answer right away, he clarified, “Money isn’t an issue, darling. Don’t let financial considerations sway your decision.”
“That’s not the problem.” And since the two of them might not live through the day, any argument over whether she’d let him support her monetarily could happen at a later date. “It’s just…”
