Page 54 of Craving Carla

He reaches for the bottle of shampoo on the shower rack, examining it with a critical eye.

“This is cheap shit,” he says, wrinkling his nose.

I glare at him and slap his chest. “Stop being an asshole. It’s ruining the moment.”

He grins down at me, and I can tell he’s pleased that I understand what he’s doing—trying to piss me off because irritating me seems to turn him on. He leans down from under the shower head, his lips just inches from mine. His eyes drop to my breasts, lingering for a moment, then he pulls back and opens the shampoo, starting to wash his hair.

“You don’t have to worry about anything anymore, baby girl,” he says.

I narrow my eyes at the pet name as he works the shampoo into his short, tight curls. The lather builds quickly, white suds spreading across his dark skin. He tilts his head back under the shower, rinsing thoroughly before repeating the process with conditioner.

When he opens his eyes again, he grabs the bar of soap, lathering one of the washcloths, and proceeds to wash his body. I can’t help myself—I press my hand against him, smoothing the soap in, glaring up at him.

“I’m not your baby girl,” I snap, and he grins at me.

“Oh yes—yes, you are, baby.”

I want to argue more, but I can’t. I watch him move the cloth down his legs, washing both, then move it to his dick. I cannot stand the smug grin on his face, but at the same time, I can’t stop myself from watching. I start to pull back, and he grabs my wrist, pulling my hand down to his dick where the washcloth sits.

“Don’t you want to help me wash up?” he questions playfully, and I try to pull my hand back, but he keeps a firm grip on my wrist. I shake my head.

“Amari, I don’t think I can handle that,” I say, and he grins at me.

“Yes, you can, baby.” He takes my hand and moves it so that my fingers wrap around his shaft. My mouth parts, and he lets out a moan, closing his eyes. “Wash me, baby,” he commands, moving my hand back and forth against his hard length that’s basically standing up at this point.

I lick my lips, stroking him as he closes his eyes and tilts his head back. “You feel so good touching me,” he murmurs.

I stroke him for a little longer before he catches my wrist and pulls my hand off his dick. Then he steps back into the shower, finishing washing up, and dips his head under the water, rinsing off.

I watch, just keep watching. Admiring the way the water falls down his body, when he turns around and I see the curve of his ass, the muscles on his calves. I need to get out of this shower and far away from him, but I can’t do it. I’m in a trance.

He grabs the second washcloth and opens his eyes, staring at me with an intensity that makes my knees weak.

“Your turn,” he says.

I whimper as he grabs me, and I can feel my body brush against his hard dick as he moves me to the shower head, dipping me under the water. The warm spray hits my face, running down my body, and I close my eyes, letting it wash over me.

Amari’s hands are unexpectedly gentle as he reaches for the shampoo. He pours a generous amount into his palm, then works it into my hair, his strong fingers massaging my scalp with a pressure that makes me sigh. There’s something almost reverent in the way he handles me, like I’m something precious, something to be cherished.

“Tilt your head back,” he murmurs, and I comply, letting him rinse the suds from my hair. He repeats the process with conditioner, taking his time to work it through every curl, detangling with careful attention that I’ve never experienced before.

When he’s satisfied with my hair, he reaches for the soap again, lathering the washcloth. He starts with my neck, working in slow circles down to my shoulders, his eyes following the movement of his hands. Every inch of my skin comes alive under his touch, nerve endings I didn’t know I had firing signals of pleasure straight to my core.

His hands move to my breasts, and I gasp at the contact. He cups one, then the other, washing with deliberate slowness that makes my nipples harden. His eyes meet mine, dark with desire, as his thumb brushes over one peak.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, and for once, I believe it.

He continues down, washing my stomach, my hips, the curve of my waist. Then he drops to his knees before me, lifting one of my legs and propping my foot on his thigh. He washes from ankle to thigh with long, smooth strokes, his fingers occasionally dipping to the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. My breath catches when he switches to the other leg, repeating the process with the same maddening thoroughness.

When he stands again, his eyes lock with mine as he moves the washcloth between my legs. I throw my head back and moan, digging my nails into his arms as he washes me, his touch sending sparks through my entire body.

Then he pulls away, and I’m left biting my lip, my thoughts clouded with pure lust. He pushes me back under the shower, rinsing me off, his hands following the flow of water to make sure every trace of soap is gone.

As his hands roam over my body, helping rinse the soap off my skin, something shifts in his demeanor. His movements become more possessive, more urgent, his breathing quickening to match mine.

“Do you know how I felt when I killed Ackley?” he says, his voice a low growl that vibrates through me. “I felt feral when I ripped his heart out of his chest and fed on it. I wanted to hang his head on the border of Wintermoon so that the world knew better than to come anywhere near you again.”

“Amari...” I breathe out, but he moves his lips to my cheek, gently planting a kiss there, then moves to my ear.

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