Page 32 of The First Kind of Love
“Is that coming out of the deposit?” she asks in between ragged breaths.
I don’t even bother looking at the mess, and I lean forward to groan into her shoulder. “It’s your fault,” I mutter.
“How is thatmyfault?”
“How is itnotyour fault? That whole show would’ve made any guy spray like a firehose.”
Shiloh muffles a giggle, thwapping me on the shoulder. “Ew, Fulton!”
I lift my head to look at her, the last of the post orgasmic aftershocks dimming to a barely noticeable buzz. “Hey, I’m just telling the truth! Pretty sure that was the peak of my entire life.”
Even though it’s tailed by airy laughter, she leans her forehead against mine, curls of her sweat-matted hair tickling my temples. “You’re really good at that,” she whispers.
“Don’t say that,” I grumble.
“Why?”
“Because you’re making me hard again.”
10
FAULTY LOCKS AND POST-O SHOCKS
SHILOH
Fulton Cazzarelli just tongue-fucked my brains out.
That had to have been, hands down, the best orgasm I ever had. I barely had to direct him—he just…he justunderstoodmy body and knew what I needed. There was no awkwardness or discomfort. It was like he was a completely different person, no longer ruled by his inexperience or self-doubt. And if that’s the way he ravages me on the second night of our pseudo vacation, then I fear for the sake of my poor pussy. Girl hasn’t seen this much action in years.
Fulton lets me use the shower before him so he can clean up his mess, and I thank the Lord that the ceramic wall is sturdy enough to hold up my weak, feverish, half-liquefied body. My cunt’s sore, my thighs are embellished with rosettes of mauve hickeys, and my head throbs with a mixture of dehydration, overexertion, and salacious thoughts that would probably put me on some sort of watch list.
I lather shampoo in my tangled tresses, feeling the soap froth between my fingers. The cascade of water batters against my chest, and the plink of the pressurized stream against the tiles lulls me into a euphoric, half-awake state.
Droplets sluice down my body, washing away the evidence of arousal that had congealed over my inner thighs. With steam rapidly enveloping the bathroom, I watch through muddied vision as a dome of bubbles disappears into the floor. I run my hands over my curves—over the areas that Fulton marked—and a sense of unflappable pride materializes in my belly, undeterred by trivial work obligations or the delusional narrative that I don’t deserve to find love.
Even though I’ve only been in here for ten minutes, my separation anxiety is at an all-time high, and my heart is one temperamental bitch that needs to barnacle itself to Fulton’s side. But the longer I’m with him, the harder it is for me to keep this a strict Cabo-only relationship.
I don’t want this fairytale to end, but I have to be realistic. Where does Fulton fit into my world, and more importantly, where doIfit intohis? He’s the one percent, and I’m the lady at the grocery store who was holding up the line the other week because of the endless heaps of coupons I’d been hoarding.
After a thorough clean and a rather violent head shake to dispose of my depressing thoughts, I step out of the shower smelling freshly of grapefruit. When I venture outside, a pall of warm air precedes me, and Fulton’s chucking crumpled tissues into the garbage can. His back is facing me, and the sinew underneath his skin ripples when he twists to pick something up. God, he’s like a wet dream come to life. I also notice a hatching of nail marks on his right shoulder, but I keep my mouth shut.
Before I’m conscious enough to voice my presence, he turns around with a look that freezes my entire body—one that unfortunately starts with my nipples.
He plows a hand through his disheveled hair, groaning. “Jesus, Shi. How do you look good wearingjusta towel?”
My cheeks flame. “I don’t have any makeup on.”
“You don’t need it.”
Fulton abandons his spot cleaning and begins to stalk closer to me, which isn’t going to end well for my abused vagina or the state of this towel. He’s brawn and bulk rolled into one delicious package—a towering giant with a gravitational pull so strong that I’m about to be sucked into his orbit for the foreseeable future. His body didn’t sustain as much damage as mine did in…Windowgate…but there are areas of his skin dappled with redness from where I either used him as a foothold or carved my proverbial name into his flesh.
And not that I was looking there or anything, but his dick is…huge. Girthy, long, impressively manicured. He's not even hard! He’s just naturally packing heat down there, and the thought of letting his pocket rocket invade my garden of Eden has me cringing with phantom pain.
Before he can breach the lip zone, my chest hitches. “You’re not wearing any clothes.”
A fully cocked grin tilts the corners of his lips up, and he hypnotizes me with the bottomless brown of his eyes, still managing to inch closer without realizing the total world destruction he’s about to impose. “Am I distracting you?” he drawls.
My first instinct is to deny, deny, deny, but my traitorous stare drops almost immediately to his dick, and now my integrity is as flimsy as my jelly-like legs. Lust tramples me, drying the saliva in my mouth while the butterflies return with a vengeance.
