by Zahra Girard
“I feel like you’re preparing me for disappointment,” I say. “Is this bathroom going to turn out to have a toilet that’s just a hole in the ground and a bucket of cold well-water for a shower?”
He looks at me, soft smile on his face. “I’m saying that it’s not going to have anything you ladies expect. I’ve got simple needs. So you wont find any vanities or whatever the hell they are, not a lot of shelves or cupboards. Though I suppose that’s something I’ll have to fix, too, sooner or later. For Abigail.”
He can’t stop thinking about her. It’s cute. I squeeze his hand.
“As long as you have a shower, I’m fine.”
“I’ve got you covered there,” he says.
Turning the door handle, he guides me into a room that’s anything but the disappointment I’m expecting. Beautiful tile floors, a sink and mirror that — even though it’s not a vanity — is still well-lit and more than adequate for anything, and an overhead rain shower.
Right next to the shower, there’s a window with a lovely view of the ocean. I can see myself here, starting my day with a view of the sea.
I stare.
There’s so many surprises to this man. I still don’t think I’m anywhere close to having him figured out, but I like the process.
“You built this yourself?”
“With a little help with the plumbing. Yeah.”
“All of this?”
I know what his answer’s going to be; I’m only pressing him because I can hear in his voice he appreciates the attention.
“Yes. It took a damned long time, and there were a few times I wavered and almost called in some contractors, but most everything in here I planned and installed by myself. I think it turned out alright.”
I let go of his hand and step closer to the shower. It’s set in the corner, right next to the window looking out to the ocean. There’s no stall separating it from the rest of the bathroom — the floor gently slopes to a drain. It’s simple, but with the view and everything else about this cabin — it’s remoteness, the forest, the sea — it’s perfect.
“Can you show me how it works?”
“Did you really make it through college without learning how a shower works?”
I blush. “I know how a shower works. But why don’t you get in here anyway?”
I’ve barely got my shirt off before he has his lips to mine, closing the distance between us in a breath and kissing me with such heat and intensity that it pushes me backwards.
Cool tile sends chills up my spine and I start, jolted by the sensation. My elbow jerks outward, hitting the lever for the shower and water streams from above, soaking the both of us. It’s bracingly cold and I yelp.
He laughs, and turns the lever to a more comfortable temperature.
“It’ll take a minute for the hot water to get here through the pipes,” he says. As if that’s supposed to make me feel better.
“My skin is literally turning blue. I feel like I’m seconds away from becoming a snow woman.”
“You’d make one damn sexy snow woman,” he says. His eyes glance downward. “That cold is making your nipples deliciously hard.”
I look down. It is.
I suppose I should be flattered, but I’m so cold that hot water seems like just a myth.
Somehow, despite the cold, Nash doesn’t stop.
He strips.
Eyes on me, grinning, he starts with his shirt, revealing abs and a chest that look even more incredible as water runs in rivulets between the muscles of his hard-chiseled body.
His pants follow, landing in a damp heap in the corner next to his shirt.
My nipples aren’t the only thing that’s hard.
Holy shit.
“I want you.”
He presses closer, overwhelming me with his size and ferocity, and now I can’t tell if the water’s hot or cold anymore. Pressed flat against the tile wall, he tears my clothes off me. Every bit of me soaked in the spray from overhead and the water that splashes and cascades off his muscular body.
Ravenous eyes look me up and down.
“Even if you weren’t my target that night, I couldn’t have kept my hands off you,” he says, his voice brimming with lust and appreciation. “You’re too damned beautiful.”
I’d say something back, but he presses me to the wall again, absolutely relentless in devouring every exposed part of me.
Steam fogs the air as he leaves my lips to kiss my breasts. His hands set fire to me, caressing the backs of my thighs, clenching tight to my ass. He pulls himself downward, burying his face between my legs, expert tongue caressing me in ways that make nerves and synapse burst in pleasure.
“Holy shit,” I blurt out.
I think he says something, but between the sound of the water splashing to the tile floor and the blood thudding in my lust-flooded ears, I can’t hear a damn thing.
I’m lost.
In him.
I press my hands flat back against the tiles for balance, spread my legs a little wider, and shut my eyes as I ride his tongue to steamy bliss.
Then, there’s a pause. I look down just in time to see a finger leave his mouth and a wicked glint in his eye.
“I can’t wait to see you come,” he growls.
I barely pull a breath before he slips a finger inside me. Then another. Breaths turn to gasps, hands clutch to whatever can hold me upright, and pleasure racks my naked body.
“Nash…” I grown.
He doesn’t answer. He growls.
He does something with his tongue — some quick, flickering, gentle movement combined with a slight suck of his lips — and it makes me clench my fists and slam them hard against the tile. It’d hurt if I could feel things, but all I feel right now is a heat slowly building inside me, starting from my tingling toes and riding up my calves, my thighs, my hips, rising higher and higher until every part of me is alight with warmth and wet. Until I feel like if I don’t pop, I’ll die.
I explode.
Tremors rock my body, my muscles contract and release and contract, and every nerve inside me lights up like my spine’s been stuck in an electrical socket. I clench tight to his head because I don’t want him to stop whatever the fuck his magical tongue is doing and I worry that, if I let go of him, there’ll be a headline in tomorrow’s newspaper Woman dies in shower fall and I don’t want to die yet.
Heaven is right here. With him. And his tongue.
My breathing slows. My fingers start to work again. And now every lick of his divine tongue makes me twitch.
“Slow,” I tell him between breaths.
He growls and chuckles in what I think is assent.
I let go of his head.
After a few more breaths, I can stand on my own again.
Slowly, grinning from ear to ear, he stands back up.
I blink sight back into my eyes, shake sense into my head.
“Are you ready?” he says.
I look him up and down.
His cock calls to me. Fuck, it looks delicious. My body is a mess, my pussy feels like it’s been zapped with a live wire, but I want him inside me and I know he wants that too.
I need it.
“Fuck me,” I moan.
“Finally,” he growls.
I turn and I brace myself against the wall. Back arched, ass out, legs spread. I feel him position himself behind me and, when he fills me, it’s a stretching sweetness that rips a deep moan from inside my chest.
Breaking, taking, making me his.
My feet skid on the slick floor, sliding with the intensity of his thrusts that rock me from behind.
It’s animal. Feral lust.
“Careful,” I whisper, my mind flashing again to thoughts of falling in the shower.
“You try being careful when you’ve got a beautiful ass right in front of you,” his voice rumbles in my ear.
He pulls out, and whips me around to face him. A kiss, deep, intense. Eyes staring into mine. With one arm, he crooks my leg a
nd lifts it up, bracing my back against the wall as he steps closer to me.
I gasp as he slides inside me.
Leaning down, he presses his lips to mine, his tongue darting to dance with mine as he fills me.
I forget about falling.
I forget about everything but the heat and closeness I feel with him.
I feel the rumble of pleasure in his chest as his cock stiffens inside me, a rumble that’s echoed by the roar of blood and heat in my own ears as I hang on for dear life.
“Fuck, Roxanna,” he moans against my mouth. “Fuck.”
He says my name again and again, each building with intensity as his thrusts get more urgent.
Smiling, I shut my eyes, losing myself to him as I wait for the warm, irresistible sensation of his release inside me.
It comes with a groan that starts deep within his powerful chest. He grips me so tight it’s almost painful. Sweet and hot and satisfying, he lets go inside me, hitting this spot deep within me that’s as good as any orgasm.
Release. Contentment. Intimate.
He holds me tight as the tremors subside and I rest my head against his chest, listening to the rhythm of his heart and the great whoosh of his lungs. I don’t want to move from this spot.
“It’s never felt like that before,” he says, breathing hard.
I want to answer, but I don’t have the words. I kiss him, instead.
Water cascades upon us, the room silent except for the sound of falling droplets.
He looks up. “So, shall we shower?”
He doesn’t sound very enthusiastic about moving.
This feels too good. My resistance must be written all over my face, because he shakes his head and puts a finger to my lips.
“Do we have to? This feels too good.”
“I don’t want to move either. If it were up to me, we’d stay here until my well runs dry.”
“So why don’t we?” I murmur.
“Because in a few minutes, I’ll probably run out of hot water. Judging by your earlier reaction, I don’t think you’d like that.”
“Why do you need to bring logic into this?”
“It’s not my strong suit, I know, but, sometimes I can’t help myself.”
I blink and shake my twitchy-reluctant limbs back to life, acknowledging that Nash is right — I don’t want to go through the cold water again — but also entirely not happy to move.
I reach for the soap on the little shelf he’s got mounted to the wall of the shower, which is another thing I’m not very enthused about. Knowing Nash, this soap is probably the same kind of harsh stuff that every guy uses; the kind that strips every bit of moisture from your body.
“Here, let me wash you,” he says, snatching the bar from my grip.
He works up a full lather and gingerly runs his hands over my body. I sigh, relaxed, as he rubs me down. His touch is gentle, almost delicate.
It isn’t half bad.
The last of the soap rinses from my body and I take one of the two towels on the towel rack and wrap it around myself. Then I take the other and wrap it around my head to dry my hair.
“Which way to the bedroom?” I say. My voice has this relaxed, floating lilt to it that only comes around when I’ve rocketed to space on an orgasm.
“Second door on the left,” he says. “You know, you’ve taken my only towels.”
“Your only towels?”
“I live alone. I’m a guy. Even two towels seems a little excessive to me.”
“Well, I need both.”
“Seriously?” He’s trying to sound upset, but I can see the corners of his lips starting to quirk upwards.
“Maybe you should’ve planned better,” I say, shrugging.
“I was in prison. And I hadn’t even met you, yet.”
“Oh well, not my fault.”
He tenses a little and his pecs start to turn pink. The hot water must be running out. “Come on. It’s not like they let prisoners order from fucking Bed Bath & Beyond.”
“Did you try?”
“Some of the guys did. Even in prison you get their coupons. You can’t escape ‘em.”
I’m already in the doorway and I wink back at him over my shoulder. “I’m not even listening. And I’m not giving you either of these towels. You can drip dry naked. Trust me, you’ll look great doing it,” I say. And he will. He looks like he’s carved from granite. Edible granite. “But I’ll tell you what I will do: I’ll be waiting for you in the bedroom.”
He clears his throat and his voice drops almost an octave. It’s cute. “Oh yeah?”
His eyes are eager, hungry, and his pecs flex, though I can’t tell if that’s because the hot water has completely died or he’s excited, but it makes me grin like a Cheshire cat either way. “I will. And I’ll tell you another thing: this shower’s made me feel invigorated.”
“Go there. Now,” he says. “And don’t move.”
“Well, which is it? Do you want me to go, or do you want me to not move?” I say, smiling wider as his eyebrow twitches and his pecs flex again in irritation.
“You know what I mean,” he growls.
“I’m not sure that I do.”
“You’re just itching for punishment, aren’t you? Do you want me to break out the zip ties again?”
“Maybe I do.”
He rinses clean and reaches for the tiny hand towel next to the sink, ineffectually dabbing himself and drying maybe a quarter of his chest and part of his arm before the towel turns into a soaked rag. He glares at me.
“Bedroom. Go there and wait for me,” he says, looking at the towel. “This might be a while.”
I dart down the hallway and find his bedroom. It’s not much to speak of. Spartan, really. There’s a great view out the window, lush greenery illuminated by the moon and stars, but the room’s decorated with just a few things: a couple service medals from the marines, a picture of Nash and some men in uniform, and another picture of Nash and his brothers from the club.
I melt into the bed. The sheets are smooth, almost silken, and rich. They slide around my body like a cloud. There’s a soft, billowy flannel comforter that I pull over me, right up to my chin.
I’m content and feel like I’m glowing. There’s an idea stirring in my head. A plan. Nash and the club, as unconventional as they might be, make a loving family. They might not be the best people, but, being around them, they feel like good people. There is love and loyalty in that clubhouse.
Nash has more than earned a chance to be a part of his daughter’s life. More than earned a chance to have his family be whole. And, if I do this right, I can stop this situation from escalating and save my father in the process.
“I’m going to make you beg for mercy,” comes Nash’s growl from the doorway.
A thrill surges up my spine and goosebumps prickle my body, even though I’m wrapped up tight in his blankets. He towers over me. Moonlight glints bright in his eyes as he pulls the blankets down and takes me by the hand.
The familiar schick of plastic hits my ears and tightens around my wrist, securing me to the headboard. He does the same with the other hand.
“Looks like I’m just at your mercy,” I say.
“Guess so.”
He climbs onto the bed, atop my chest, he knee to each side of me. His cock — hard, stiff, pulsing with his heartbeat — inches from my lips.
I lean forward and take him in my mouth, running my tongue along the familiar firm length of him, before leaning back to look up at him. Every inch of him is rock solid, like he spent his years in prison doing nothing but turning his body into some sculptor’s vision.
Heat grows between my legs; I’m sated, spent, but ready for more.
Fuck, this man does things to me.
“It looks like you’re expecting something, too,” I say.
“Just your beautiful lips wrapped around my cock.”
“How romantic.”
“You’re my hostage, remember?” he says, slipping his han
ds around the back of my head. “This isn’t about romance.”
For all his threats, his grip is gentle all the same, and my blood quickens and heats in a way that it’s never done with just a one night stand. I wrap my lips around him and take him inside me, feeling the weight and length of him upon my tongue and deep in my throat.
Nash groans above me, head back, a look on his face of deep satisfaction and contentment.
“You’re something else,” he whispers.
I pull back and look up at him.
“I’ll bet you say that to all the women who suck your cock.”
My lips wrap around him again and I take him as deep as my throat will allow, relishing the thrill of watching his words die on his lips in a voiceless moan, his chest rising and falling.
I can’t take my eyes off him. The look on his face, the way his muscular chest leads down to his six-pack abs. They way his muscles flex and move, rippling with strength and power. My hand struggle against the zip ties as the urge to reach behind him and grab him by his incredible ass takes over me.
“Only you.”
I relax my throat and take him past the point of gagging.
He rocks his hips into me, fucking deeper, and I swallow him to the base, until my nose is pressed into the delicious ‘v’ point his abs make. His cock stiffens and twitches with the twining touch of my tongue — he’s close, but I don’t want him there yet.
I pull back, letting his delicious dick fall from my mouth.
He breathes deep, and I move down, caressing his balls with my tongue. A shiver runs through him that makes me giggle.
“Don’t stop. You feel too damn good.”
He tightens his grip on my hair, making me flinch — he’s not gentle — and the pull is irresistible, guiding me back to his cock.
Not that I mind.
I love what I can do to him with just a brush of my tongue. I love the sounds of pleasure that resonate deep in his powerful chest. I love knowing I’m the only one who’s made this man feel this good.
There’s a twitch. A tremor. A moan.
“I’m — “is all he says, a half-warning, but I’m ready.