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I start on his black shirt once I’m naked, unfastening the buttons and pushing it off his wide shoulders, kissing his chest as I move my hands to his pants and he kicks his shoes off. I can feel the vibration of his groan against my lips on his chest. I drop to my knees, pulling his pants down with his boxers and drop a peck on the very tip of his weeping erection. It twitches, throbs, and I’m pulled to my feet and backed up into the corner of the shower. His deadly, masterpiece of a body cages me in, water raining down on him. I lay my hands on his waist and gaze into his lazy, hooded eyes. “Ever call yourself a whore again,” he whispers hoarsely, brushing our lips together, working me up, “I won’t be so nice next time.”
I reach down and seize his cock, and his eyes close, his inhale long as he pushes my hand away. A deep groan and a roll of his hips has him inside me, my back pinned to the wall enabling me to loop my legs around his tight waist. He goes deeper. I cry out. He grunts, starting to retreat and advance calmly, his pace languid. I’m hypersensitive to every slow stroke, my back slipping across the wet tiles with ease, and I reach for his face, pushing his hair away, holding him, watching his expression contort with a pleasure only I can give, and a need only I can sate. This beautiful, dangerous man. My absolute hero.
I rest my head back, keeping my unparalleled view, and let his expert ways wipe us clean along with the water. The strain on his face becomes more apparent after each advance, the pressure against my internal walls from his increasingly swollen length becoming firmer. His parted lips and his drowsy eyes are a glorious picture of my husband pre-climax.
I clamp my arms around his neck, hauling him in, and I kiss him with a passion that’s natural, taking us both to the edge.
“Rose,” he whispers jaggedly, jerking, coming, and I come with him, tensing every limb around his solid physique.
I strain to drag out the pleasure, every nerve in my body sizzling, pulsing, screaming. “Oh God,” I whisper into his mouth, stiff in his arms, trying to contain the intensity. Every convulsion of his cock seems to trigger another spasm in me, making me twitch and tense, fighting to deal with the sensitivity.
Nipping my tongue, he relaxes into me, burying his face in my wet neck. “I could binge on you forever and never feel full,” he says on labored breaths, and I smile into his shoulder, having a nibble of his flesh. I said that once, I’m sure of it. And I still feel the same. “Come, let me clean you.”
I wince at the pull in my legs as I release them from around his waist, finding my feet, and stand quietly while he washes me down with the utmost care. Like I’m fragile. “You said you wanted to agree on some things,” I say.
His movements falter, the washcloth pausing on my shoulder for a few seconds. “Right.”
“I think that’s a good idea.”
“What do you want, Rose?”
“I want you to wear a vest when you leave the house.”
“I’m assuming you don’t mean a waistcoat.”
“No, I don’t mean a waistcoat.” British lingo fucks with my mind sometimes. I turn so he can see how serious I am. “A bulletproof vest. I want you to wear one. So whoever you’re sourcing your arsenal from, I want you to call them up and add it to your shopping list.”
His smile is unsure as he leisurely soaps his torso down. If he even thinks about coming at me with some spiel about it being unnecessary, I might scream. “A bulletproof vest?”
“Yes,” I reply. “The best on the market, please.”
“Fine.”
I hide my recoil. It’s hard when I’m shell-shocked.
“Now onto some other things.” He takes a towel and wraps me before seeing to himself.
Shit. Whatever he’s going to demand, I can hardly say no now. “What things?”
“Our wedding.” He drapes the towel over his shoulders and starts pulling from side to side, drying himself.
Oh? “What about it?”
“Well, since I’m a crucial guest, it would be nice to know when I should be there.”
“Three weeks,” I say casually as I saunter away butt naked, smiling as I go.
“Confirmed.”
“No, but it will be. What are my boundaries?”
“No guests past our friends. Father McMahon will do the service, so we’d better check three weeks suits him. No wedding planner, no announcement in the local newspaper, and no moaning about it from you.”
I stop in my tracks, my nose wrinkling. “This is going to be the most boring wedding ev . . . oh!” I’m hauled back and thrust up against the wall by his naked, hard, gorgeous, lickable, wet body. I blink, disorientated, gaining my focus. He looks mad. But he isn’t. I push my face forward and lick a long line up his scar to his eye. “Can’t wait,” I whisper.
