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“Come here,” I tell her. And she does, stepping forward the few steps it takes for her to be right in front of me.
Keeping my eyes steady on her dark ones, I bring my hands to her blouse and start unbuttoning the buttons. Slowly. Deliberately.
She doesn’t protest and she doesn’t look away, even when I slide the soft cotton down her arms and onto the floor. Instead, she helps me, turning her back so that I can unfasten her skirt. Her bra.
I slide them off, too, then catch my fingers in the sides of her panties and tug them down her legs as well. When they reach her ankles, she steps out of them. I toss them to the floor, but not before checking to see if they’re wet.
They are, and so is she.
The thought has my dick growing hard all over again, but I ignore my erection. Instead, I kneel next to her and slowly take one shoe off her foot and then the other, then remove her stockings. She’s beautiful, so beautiful that it makes me ache a little. Makes me want in a way I haven’t let myself want in so, so long.
“Sebastian.” Her voice is low, husky. “If you want—”
“Come on,” I interrupt as I push back to my feet. “Let’s get you in the tub, sweetheart.”
I hold out my hand and she takes it, looking confused as she lets me help her into the bath. With her in it, the water is nearly to the rim, so I shut off the tap. Then smile at the picture she makes, covered from neck to toe in bubbles. She’s got some on her cheeks, the top of her head, even her eyelashes, all of which should look absurd but somehow only makes her look sexier…and more adorable.
Maybe that’s why I’m having so much trouble with Aria. Because I don’t know where to put her, how to classify her. She’s sexy as hell—every movement she makes, every word she speaks, shoots straight to my dick. And her attitude is a total turn-on. How can it not be when she’s smart and sassy and doesn’t take shit from anyone? Even me. Especially me. Which only makes the sweetness, and the uncertainty, she shows me all the more special. She’s feeling her way with me and I get the feeling that that’s not a side of herself she shows very many people.
I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t like that. If I pretended I didn’t like knowing that she’s pliant with me in a way she isn’t for anybody else. I like that I knock her off-kilter in much the same way she does me.
There’s a washcloth on the towel rack next to the bathtub, and I grab it as I sink to my knees. Reaching into the hot water, I get it wet, then squirt body wash onto it. Like the bubble bath, it smells like her. Jasmine and moonlight and crisp, clear desert nights.
“Give me your arm,” I tell her, then wait patiently as Aria stares at me with wide eyes. Eventually, she does as I ask, sticking her bubble covered arm out of the water.
I run the washcloth down her arm, over her hand, between her fingers. I savor the softness of her skin, the rosy glow brought on by the heat. She giggles a little as the washcloth tickles the sensitive skin at the apex of her fingers, and I smile. Do it again. I love hearing her laugh.
When I’m finished with her left arm, I reach for her right one. Do the same thing to it. And then I’m washing her neck, her collarbone, her beautiful breasts.
I’m doing my best to keep her bath soothing, relaxing, but the moment the washcloth touches her breasts, her nipples harden. Unable to resist, I pause for a moment. Run a finger around and around her areola before flicking back and forth across her nipple with my thumb. She gasps, arches into my touch, and I clear the bubbles away so that I can press a few soft kisses to her breasts.
Then I pull back and murmur, “Sit forward.”
Eyes dazed and body clumsy, she does as I ask. I keep an arm wrapped around her front as I wash her shoulders, her back, her ass. Because I’m weak and can’t help myself, I run a finger between the soft globes of her ass, press gently against her. And revel in the hitch in her breathing, the soft moan she doesn’t try to smother.
For a moment, I think about what it will be like to fuck her there, to press my fingers deep inside her most secret place and open her up. To slide inside her again and again, until she’s calling my name with broken breaths. Until she’s coming on my dick, my fingers, my tongue, her body clenching rhythmically around me.
Coming and coming and coming.
For a second, the fantasy is so real that I’m shaking with the need to be inside of her. Sweating with it. If I shift her forward just a little, angle that gorgeous ass of hers just a little higher, I can slide a finger straight into her heat. The thought—and my desire to see it through—is nearly paralyzing in its intensity.
But that’s not what this is about, not what I want—need—to give Aria right now. So, after a second, I ease her back down against the rear wall of the tub. Instead of fucking her like I so desperately want to do, I soap up the washcloth again. Run it over her sides, across her stomach, down one leg and up the other. Then, when she’s moving restlessly and her breath is coming in broken pants, I drop the washcloth on the side of the tub and cup her sex in my hand.
“Sebastian,” she whimpers, arching her hips into my touch.
She’s so beautiful like this, beautiful and desperate and so, so hot. There’s a part of me that wants to draw this out, to watch her moan and tremble and beg for release. I want to hear her call my name again in that trembling voice, to know that I’m the one she’s thinking about when she comes.
But that smacks of possessiveness, of ownership, and that’s not what this is about. Not this moment, not this time.
And so I shove my own tangled instincts and desire down deep inside of myself, at the same time using both hands to spread her knees apart and watching with satisfaction as they fall against the sides of the tub. And then I run my fingers along her slit, once, twice, before slipping three of them inside of her at once.
Aria gasps, whimpers. Suddenly, I’m afraid it’s too much and I start to pull out, but she keens wildly, presses her hips up and into my touch. In response, I thrust deeply even as I circle her clit with my thumb.
“It’s okay,” I tell her, leaning forward to press soft kisses on her jaw, her neck, her breasts. “I’ve got you, Aria. Let go. Come for me.”
Just that easily, she shatters, her body clenching onto my fingers in a rhythm that nearly makes me come in my pants like some kid with his first girl.
I hold on, though—barely, desperately—and work her through it, using my fingers and my hand to draw her orgasm out as long as I possibly can.
