Page 92 of The Heiress's First Date

Her laugh turns dark and wicked. I’ve never heard anything like it, and it seems almost unfair that I’m the only one here enjoying it. But I’m bastard enough to enjoy having all her attention on me. And only me.

With her other hand, she massages my nuts. My eyes roll back in my head, and my knees give.

“Almost clean,” she says.

“You keep that up, and I’m going to get dirty again.” At the very least, sticky.

“Good thing we’re in the shower,” she murmurs, thumb finding the sensitive spot just beneath the head.

My hips punch forward, and she laughs again. The sweet sound bounces off the walls, and it takes some mental gymnastics to keep calm when everything in me wants to scoop her up and press her against the wall.

Pulling her up into a hug is maybe the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But I’m serious about being with her, not giving in to my urges just because she turns me on.

“My turn,” I say again, reaching for the shower gel. This time, she doesn’t argue and simply enjoys a bit of pampering. “And this is about more than sex to me.”

She inhales, the soft sound echoing off the polished walls.

“You’re incredible,” I murmur as I kneel before her, washing every inch.

She rests her hands on my shoulders for balance. “I’m just me.”

I press a kiss against her lower belly. “Well, just you, you’re very special.”

She cups my chin and tips my face up, disbelief making her lips part. But when she sees how sincere I am, how crazy I am about her, disbelief turns to pleasure.

Done with her legs, I stand and pull her beneath the spray for a rinse. It’s hard to focus on the task at hand when her curves are so silky smooth beneath my fingertips. But I manage because I’m serious about our relationship. Our connection isn’t solely physical.

“Can I wash your hair?”

“Please, and thank you.”

???

We snuggle in bed, her wrapped in her robe, me with a towel around my hips, my half-hard cock nudging the terrycloth. I wasn’t much of a cuddler before I met her, but I can tell how much she loves physical contact. Craves it. Embraces every touch, every opportunity to sink into each other.

“I could get used to this,” she murmurs, index finger absently drawing patterns on my chest.

“This?”

“Lazy Sunday afternoons.”

“What do you normally do on a Sunday afternoon?”

I don’t even need to see her face to know she’s curling her lip. “Tea, polo, regattas... whatever my mother put on my schedule as important. A lot of events to make connections. But never this.”

“I’m glad about that last part.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmhmm. If you’d been doing this with some other lucky guy, Gabe, King, and I would have never stood a chance.”

“I’ve never done this with anyone but you.”

“I’m a lucky bastard.”

“Hmm... you’re not a bastard.”

“I’m a lucky man.”

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