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He met her questioning glance when he clamped his hands over hers, stopping the tender strokes. “I don’t want to come yet,” he explained brusquely. He grabbed the first towel he saw, muscled her out of the shower and started rubbing her down.
She stood there, vaguely bewildered as he dragged terry cloth over her body. That hot perfumed smell of her rosy, curvy body made his mouth water. Literally. He dropped down to his knees on the soggy bathroom rug and combed his fingers through her muff, parting the dark, wet ringlets to get down to the tender stuff—
She stiffened, stumbled back against the sink. Put her hand to his face to hold him away. “No.”
He froze. “What? You don’t like it?”
She looked distressed. “I’m sure that I’d like it fine if you did it,” she said, her voice small.
“What happened?” he rapped out. “Say it.”
She flinched. “Zhoglo hurt me. There. With his fingernail. While I was serving the fruit. It’s no big deal, but—”
She squeaked as he rose up and hoisted her up onto the sink. “Let me see,” he growled. A haze of fury made him almost dizzy.
“Oh, no.” She tried to wiggle down. “Forget it.”
“Shut up and let me see.” He shoved her legs apart.
The makeup light over the mirror wasn’t enough, so he flipped on the switch by the door. Becca winced and covered her eyes as the steamy little room was flooded with harsh fluorescent light.
He parted her labia, pulled the hood back to look at her clit. Sure enough, an angry red line sliced right across that button of flesh. The bastard hadn’t broken the skin, but still. Fucking ouch. His balls clenched in sympathy as he looked at it.
It made him so angry, he wanted to put his fist through a wall. Not Becca’s wall, though. That was all she needed tonight. A little property damage, to finish off her very special weekend.
He cupped his hand over her pussy and dropped a kiss on the baby-smooth skin of her groin. “That goes right to the top of the list of reasons why I need to kill that sadistic piece of shit,” he said.
“Really, it’s OK,” she hastened to soothe him. “It’s not any—”
“Shut up with the ‘it’s OK’ bullshit,” he snarled. “It’s not OK. It sucks. Face up to it.”
She shoved his hand away from her crotch. “Don’t tell me to shut up.” Her tone was crystal sharp. “I’m tired of it. Don’t do it. Ever again.”
He stepped back, chastened. Suddenly aware of the water dripping down from his hair, puddling around his feet. His dick bobbed and swung. Ever hopeful, no matter the circumstances.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m just angry. At him. Not you.”
She gazed at him, eyes narrowed, chin tilted up. Slowly, some of the haughty starch eased out of her graceful posture. Her tits jiggled tenderly as she slid down off the sink and onto her feet.
“Well,” she murmured. “Thanks for the sentiment. I suppose.”
He took hold of his self-control with both fists, and forced the words out, hoping desperately that she wouldn’t take him up on it.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said heavily.
“Do what? You mean…”
“Me. You don’t have to do me.” The words hurt his throat. “It’s a bad time. I know that. I don’t want to hurt you. I’ll leave. If you want.”
She didn’t speak. He didn’t dare look at her. He held his breath. Forty or so agonizing seconds went by. He ventured a cautious glance.
Her expression was soft. Hope soared. His cock twitched and throbbed, hoisting itself impossibly higher. Ready to rock and roll. Maybe trying to be halfway decent had actually paid off for once.
That was so seldom the case. In his experience.
“I don’t want you to leave,” she whispered. “Please stay.”
Relief made him dizzy. “If I stay, we’re having sex,” he warned.
