Page 47 of Three, Two, One [321]

I roll my eyes even though he can’t see them. “It’s a dream people have. The reality of it is so much bullshit.”

“Because it’s hard to make it to the finish line?”

“Are you a Navy SEAL?”

“Are you a novelist?”

“No, that’s my point. It’s just a dream.”

“Do you even write?” His hands slide up my front and cup my breasts. He squeezes them hard and the familiar throbbing begins between my legs. Goddamn, this guy is good. Always got his eye on the prize. And how the fuck did sex with him become a treat I desire instead of the other way around? How did he do that? Make me want him so thoroughly?

“Blue?”

I let out a long breath, hoping to calm the rising storm building inside me. But the heat of the water, and the heat of his body, and the heat of my own desire are all I can think about. So instead of evading, and because I want him to fuck me so badly, and at this point I realize he knew that denying me last night would make me even more susceptible this morning… I answer him with the truth. “I do.”

“Mmm,” he says, his hands rubbing down the inside of my thighs. They dip so low, I can feel the water swirl around my clit.

This makes me gasp a little, and for a fraction of a second, I’m embarrassed. But then the little swirls of water are back and that’s all I can think about.

“Fuck me,” I whisper.

“What do you write, Blue?” he asks like a man in control.

“Stories,” I say, like a woman on the edge of sexual frustration madness.

“Where can I read one?”

“Fuck me.”

“If I fuck you, will you let me read one?”

I turn around in the tub and look him in the eyes. They are knowing. Like they know I’m his. “Fuck me like you’d fuck your wife on her wedding night.”

“And you’ll give me a story?”

I nod. “I promise.” It comes out as a whisper.

He leans down and kisses me. His hand cups the side of my face and I turn into him even more. My leg hits his erection and that makes him claim my mouth harder. His tongue pushes inside, searching. Like he’s seeking the truth and it can only be found by twining ourselves together.

And then he stands up, his strong arms around me, taking me with him. And he lifts me out of the tub and walks me out of the bathroom. The entire time we’re connected by our kiss. My knees hit the back of the bed and I stumble back.

But then his hands have me, and I finish my fall onto the bed in his arms. I pull him closer to me. I need to feel his skin against my skin, his chest against my breasts, our breathing building up to a wave of rising and falling as we stare into each other’s eyes.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“I’ll tell you when you tell me.”

And that ends it. Because we both know we’re not who we say we are. He can’t be this man who takes advantage of women on the streets and puts their bodies up on the internet. He just can’t.

And if he really believes I’m nothing more than a whore who likes to be beaten when she has sex, well, I’d be so disappointed.

“Like my wife on her wedding night?” he asks, changing the subject back.

“Mmm-hmm,” I answer.

“Does my wife want it how I’d do it? Or how I think she’d like it?”

“How you’d do it.” I can’t stop staring into his eyes. I want to know his secrets. I want him to know mine so bad.