Page 51 of Art of Sin

“You can do the rest.”

“I want you to do it.”

I hear his smile in the words, “Nice try. I’d rather watch.”

My belly flutters. Turning, I find him under the other showerhead. My thoughts stutter and stall. Water sluices over his shoulders, running through the valleys of muscle in his chest and stomach. Down to the erection he doesn’t bother to hide.

I look up, find those enigmatic eyes on my face. One brow cocked in challenge or contempt. God, this man…

“That looks painful,” I say, my bravado feigned. I grab the bar of soap he discarded on a small shelf and lather up my washcloth.

He shrugs. “Instant gratification is boring.”

“You’re a masochist.”

A low grunt. “And you’re a sadist, because what I want is to see your hands on your body.”

Can arousal kill you?

It feels that way, the edge so bright and sharp I can hardly think or move. The daily, dull routine of washing myself is excruciatingly intimate. A door into my private self forced open by his hand.

Sluggish, drugged with need, I wash my chest, my legs. And when Gideon plants his feet, leans back against the wet wall, and begins to stroke himself, I decide I’ll never shower again without thinking of him.

When my slick, soapy fingers finally slip between my legs, Gideon’s fist picks up speed.

“What does it feel like?” In opposition to his fierce expression and straining, blood-filled cock, his voice is cool. Detached.

But I know him well enough to see through it, now. Gideon is the least detached person I’ve ever met. If anything, he’s the opposite. Too alive. Too impassioned.

“Hot,” I tell him, water misting from my lips. “Creamy. Sensitive. Painful.”

He hisses. “Can you make yourself come?”

I nod, gasping as my index finger grazes my swollen clit. My other hand lifts instinctively to my breasts, squeezing to relieve the pressure.

Gideon’s head thuds against the wall, his heavy gaze on my face, mouth, chest. Between my legs where my hand moves. Flicks of my thumb on my clit, two fingers plunging inside. When I find that perfect rhythm, my hips begin to move. Gideon’s hand slows, his pace matching mine, like he’s with me. Inside me. And I’m inside him.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful.”

We come within seconds of each other, his groan and my cry chasing our shared pleasure. As I jerk and shudder through aftershocks of my orgasm, he milks every last drop of his climax. Semen pools in his clenched fingers, stays there as he stares, frozen, at the evidence.

“Gideon?” I whisper.

He slants me a look so loaded with emotion—blame, confusion, helplessness—it slices me. Cracks me apart. I take a step toward him, one hand feebly lifted. I’ll do anything to take away that look of pain.

“Don’t,” he says. Harsh and abrupt. He turns, rinsing quickly, then cranks off his side of the shower. Naked, dripping, he strides out of the bathroom.

I stare at the dark pools of water left by his footsteps.

---