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“My cock is throbbing in my fist, Woman. You should feel it. Like. A. Fucking. Drum. It hurts.” He gasps in a deep feverish way. “Fuck. You’re killing me. With that body. Those tits. That no-bars-held scowl. With that sweat. I want to lick your spine. Take you against the shower wall.”
He starts to grunt—each burst of sound draws a gasp from me as though the end of that bruising sound batters me inside. The sensation causes me to press my body to the wall and rub, receiving no ebb to the intense phantom fucking he’s so loudly giving me.
“And you’ll spread your legs for me. Offer me that juicy pussy because you’llwantme to come.”
I close my eyes. Listen to him fuck his fist.
See me.
And him.
Together.
He goes on breathlessly. “I’ll take a fist full of your caramel hair. You’ll arch your back like you’re made of rubber, and you’ll take me deep. You’ll scratch at the tiles because you’re a fucking fighter. You’ll scream my name. Beg me to come inside you. Want to feel me lose my sanity, lose my fucking vision, overyourbody.”
It's too much.
“Xander,” I pant against the wall.
“Kaya.” His groan is tight. “I’m gonna come for you, Woman. And you’re gonna.” Grunt. “Love it.” Grunt. “My dirty. Pretty. Little scrapper.Fuuuck.”
Moaning to his dark promise, I slide my slick body against the slippery tiles as he delivers on it immediately.
A slap. A grunt. A long groan that seems to settle in my core where it vibrates to the long, guttural melody of his orgasm, where it twists me in tight knots. The sound of him wringing his cum from his cock becomes agonisinglypleasurable.
Fuck. Me.
And he wins. That was a whole new sense of gratification. Of excitement.
He’s annoying.
As his groaning softens into hums, the electrified air parting around me, I roll my head against the misty wall.
“You did that,” he says, lust deepens each word. “Just the image of you on the other end of my cock. Did. That. And if that’s not dominant, if that’s not part of your feminine power, your strength, I don’t know what is. Nothing fucking patriarchal about it, Woman.”
I want so much more from him in this moment, to talk to him, to hear his thoughts on life—to watch him come while he thinks about me—but I remind myself that Xander Butcher doesn’t do commitment or girlfriends. It’s well known. So, that’s not what’s happening here. We are strangers stumbling along, our paths colliding due to circumstances and hormones. That’s all.
His shower shuts off.
Silence gathers now, but for his breathing. The figurative moment over, leaving me feeling swept up and uncertain. I can’t be the one who hopes this interaction is more than just casual. I can’t be left behind.
Anxious to beat him out of the stall, maybe I can leave the gym before he has a chance to catch me, I turn the tap off and reach for the towel.
Rushing, I pull on the District City gym shirt and shorts, that haveHome Of The Legendprinted across the bust and thigh—Xander gave them to me after our spar. I stumble out, hopping to get the shorts all the way up my arse—
I bump straight into that hard, scorching wall of muscles that climb for miles. My gaze pans down the shredded plane of his naked torso, to his low-hanging jeans.
Still reeling, I steady myself against him by placing both palms on his chest, and he hisses when my fingers flex on the smooth hairless surface. He shaves. Or waxes.
I brave a glance at his face.
He’s got what can only be described as anorgasm expression—jaw pulsing like it wants to lock onto flesh, eyes hooded with dirty intentions. “So, you didn’t get any pleasure from that?” he says with a crooked grin.
“No.” I can feel my blush. “You’re a pervert.”
His eyes darken. “Liar.”
We are so close. But then he walks away, my hands slipping from his pectorals, instantly colder and mourning their warmth. Now it’s time to wake up.
