Page 164 of Collide
Alex presses his mouth to the curve of my shoulder, his breath warm, the scrape of his stubble rough and electric. “You know what you do to me?” he says, voice wrecked, barely a thread of control left.
He cups my breasts in both hands, molding me against the hard line of his body, his erection pressing hot and insistent against the small of my back.
I whimper, helpless, boneless in his arms.
“Imagine how this would feel inside you,” he murmurs against my skin, hips rolling in the barest suggestion, enough to make my thighs clench tight.
My breath stutters. Apprehension and desire weaving together, low in my belly, sharp enough to ache.
Alex feels it—me tensing—and slows immediately, brushing a kiss over my shoulder like a promise.
“Butnot tonight,” he whispers, echoing my words. He’s toying with me.
He steps back just enough to guide me toward the bath, fingers sliding down my hips, hooking into the lace of my panties.
“One more thing.” He’s almost laughing under his breath as he drags the last scrap of fabric down my legs. I step out, shivering.
Alex’s hands frame my hips for a beat, then trail lower, giving my ass a playful squeeze that makes me yelp softly, giggling and aching.
He guides me carefully up the steps, into the bath. The water is hotter than I expect, a searing kiss against my skin, and I gasp, sinking under anyway, letting it scald the night off my body.
Alex climbs in behind me, arms bracketing mine, pulling me back against his chest. His hands are everywhere—easy, slow, unrushed—tracing the slick line of my thigh, the curve of my hip, like he has all the time in the world.
I tip my head back onto his shoulder, feeling the wet slide of his mouth along my neck, my body melting against his in the heat and the quiet.
Alex pulls a cloth from the rack next to the bath, dipping it into the water, soaking it, before he drags it lazily over my shoulder, my collarbone, and the slope of my breasts. He lets the cloth float before reaching over to pump some soap from the dispenser and lathering it in his hands.
He rubs my shoulders, slick and wet, then my collarbone.
“You have no idea”—his voice is rough around the edges, almost to himself—“how fucking perfect you are.”
He glides his soapy hands over the swell of my breasts, circling lazily around my nipples until they tighten into stiff peaks.
“Everything is so new to you,” he says, and I hear him smiling, my body twitching and gasping under his touch.
“Alex,” I moan. My cheeks flame.
Then he’s gone, dispensing more soap into his hands.
Fucking tease.
He works it into a thick, silky foam and trails it down my torso, teasing along the hollow of my navel.
Then lower.
He pauses at the apex of my thighs, my back pressed into his twitching cock.
“May I?” he asks.
“Please,” I plead, teetering on the edge.
He slides his hands between my legs, the lightest, slickest touch. Nowhere near enough pressure to satisfy the ache blooming there.
He hums low in his chest, the sound vibrating against the tile. “Fuck,” he says softly “Your body is perfect.” He continues to soap every inch of me. Thighs, hips, stomach, breasts. Methodically, almost cruel in how careful he is not to give me what I’m hungry for.
“I could make you come just from touching you like this.” He drags the soapy cloth up the inside of my thigh, stopping just shy of where I’m throbbing for him.
“Butnot tonight,” he murmurs, the words curling against my ear like a secret he’s savoring. He says it with a smile in his voice, not anger, not disappointment, just pure, wicked patience. Hepresses a kiss to the side of my neck, slow and wet, teeth grazing lightly at the end, making me shiver.
