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Sandy’s heart was pounding hard in anger as she set the soap aside and instead reached up to smear Beckham’s head with shampoo. She wanted to kick him in the nuts. She wanted to scream and claw at him. She raked her nails into his head and grumbled curse words as she ran her fingers through his scalp. He hunched his shoulders so that she could more easily reach him, and she pulled him lower just to put him at an awkward position. Bastard.
He pulled free and put his head under the spritz, the soapy bubbles sliding down his face, and Sandy stared at his wet chest, her anger morphing into the most uncomfortable lust she’d felt in her life. She could mark every muscle with a pencil, every ab muscle, the pectorals, the shoulders, biceps, triceps…
“Like what you see?”
Her eyes jerked up to find those bottomless night-eyes of his, heavy-lashed and watching her.
“Not really. I remembered you…younger,” she lied.
But the years had been too kind to him, he was all man. Still glowering down at her.
“Soap up my neck and back, the shit slid all the way down my collar.”
“Spoken like a true pampered millionaire who’s never had to get a little dirty,” she sniped angrily, and soaped up her hands to slide her fingers along his neck and down his back. His skin was slick and wet, and the contrast of its smoothness with the hard muscles beneath them for a moment captivated her. She slid the soap around his waist, and his ab muscles contracted under her touch. Her heart froze in her chest when she realized he’d gone super still, and suddenly she was agitated, but for a whole other reason.
She still wanted him.
Her nipples poked into her wet dress and the heat between her legs burned. Her insides clenched with yearning for his touch, her eyes wanting him to be facing her so she could admire his lips. He started turning, and she dropped her hands and put a scowl in place. She didn’t come for this. She didn’t want him to see. Did she? Well. Did she?
She wanted to prove to herself she didn’t want him, he no longer held any appeal. She’d been fifteen or sixteen or whatever and stupid, and he’d been everything she’d ever wanted. And now…
Water pounded on his shoulders, his hair slicked back and dark, drops dangling on his eyelashes. His eyes were turbulent black, fiercely studying her as he took a step and she took one back until she gasped, the coolness of the marble tile all along her back.
The intent in his gaze was so unmistakable, she flung the soap to his chest. It bounced and clattered, and he scowled once more, grabbing her arms and pinning them up over her head. “Why do you keep hitting me?”
Her teeth began to chatter, her braless nipples suddenly jutting out at attention in her dress. “Because I don’t like you.”
He lowered his head and opened his mouth to retort, his eyes glimmering in challenge, and she just couldn’t think anymore. He was close and wet and he was Beckham Winters. She went up on tiptoe and took his lips with a famished moan she couldn’t quite contain, sticking her tongue into his mouth. His hands convulsively clenched on her wrists as her mouth moved frantically against his, then he groaned and released her, grabbing face within his damp, hot hands, angling her head, and plunging into her mouth with force.
“Damn you.” He pulled her up against his hips, her arms coming around him as they explored each other’s mouths. “Damn you, let me see you.”
He yanked her dress down and pushed it down to her hips, then down her ankles, then sent it splattering to the floor, and she protested when he pulled his mouth free for the maneuver, so he brought it back to hers as he carried her out of the shower.
Her heart was speeding, her breath ragged as she found herself engulfed in a huge towel. She
saw him strip to his birthday suit—and what a gorgeous birthday suit he had!—and wrap one around his waist, then he was lifting her and carrying her to his ginormous bedroom, where in the center of it was a ginormous bed. He threw her down on it, following her down to smash her mouth once more. When his mouth joined hers at an angle, she disintegrated with need.
She’d never felt like this in years, in her entire life. She sank her nails into his shoulders as Beckham pulled the towel from underneath her and yanked off his own. When his body came back over hers, they were still slick with water, and a fever took hold of her.
She reached between them and caressed his cock—long and thick, smooth as velvet and as uncompromising as Beckham was, while he stroked his fingers across the wet lips of her pussy. She groaned; he growled. He curled one hand around her breast and pushed out the nipple so he could lave it with his tongue; and he pushed a finger inside her. “Oh,” she groaned in pleasure as her nails raked up his arms.
“That’s right, squeeze around my finger,” he whispered, husky, watching her as he pulled his finger out and rubbed the pad of his thumb over her clit.
This time when he fucked two fingers inside her, Sandy was ready for him to fill her; pleasure noises bubbled up her mouth, her eyes fluttering shut, her breasts pushing upward in offering and there—suddenly—was Beckham’s hungry mouth. Sucking one nipple, his fingers tweaking the other. Huskily whispering, “I knew you’d be like this, Sandy,” then, more fingering, more husky whispers against her other nipple as he moved his fingers inside her, “I knew you’d be fire in bed—you don’t do half-measures, do you? All passion, its either all or nothing for you. Now I get all of it, Sandy, all of you….”
Stroking her in the most delicious ways, Sandy tossed her head side to side, moaning.
“Stop talking, Beckham,” she groaned, clutching the back of his head to her breast. “I’m trying to pretend you’re someone else, okay?!” she lied, embarrassed that with his magical mouth and the probing of his finger, her whole body already tensed for orgasm.
His head shot up and he looked at her, shooting her his blackest look.
“Are you, really?” he asked thoughtfully. “Who?”
Oh, no. My orgasm. “No, not really,” she amended.
He grinned and oh, geez, she was in trouble. Suddenly he was inserting three fingers inside her. Three fingers stretching her vagina so wide she almost went off right then and there. She fought the muscular contractions but her eyes drifted shut out of their own will, and a bubbling sound escaped her. Beckham didn’t seem to like it. He growled, raspy and deep, “Open your eyes, Sandy. I want you to know at all times who’s doing this to you. Who you’re moaning for. Writhing for.”
She opened her eyes, her breath clogging somewhere in the middle of her windpipe at the sight that met her. Inside Beckham’s midnight black gaze was a sea of pure roiling desire as he watched what he did to her.
