Page 85 of Sunshine
And when her second orgasm settles, I slip my arm underneath her waist, flip us both over, and hold her hard against my body. Impaled on my cock, she slumps against my chest, and I press the tip of the vibrator against the tight ring of her ass.
Poppy turns her face into the crook of my neck, biting down with a lusty moan as I thrust up into her, holding the toy in place as I pin her against me and fuck her like a mad man. She gyrates in circles, lifting her ass higher to give me better access, and as the telltale ripples of her third orgasm dance against my dick, I finally let go, balls tightening, thighs tensing, and heat bursting as I come deep inside her.
Thrust after thrust I release deep in her pussy, my arm holding her hard against me, our sweat mingling as her tits slide against me and her low moans reverberate where she presses her mouth to my neck. I hold her tight as our bodies move from glorious tension to sated ease. Our muscles grow limp, our breathing slows, and still, we don’t move.
I don’t know what just happened between us, but it wasn’t just sex. It was so much more. An awakening. A revelation. A vow. And neither of us want to shift in case we break it.
We lay there in silence, me stroking her hair, Poppy’s lips dancing along my neck, until she sighs with regret.
“I need a shower,” she says.
I don’t want to let her go. I’m not ready for tonight to be over. So with my arms around her waist, her legs pinned against my hips, I sit up and swing my legs off the side of the bed, then stand and carry her to my bathroom.
She wraps her long legs around me and burrows into my neck, and as I breathe in her cherry-scented fragrance, I fantasize I can feel her heart beating in time against mine. She clings to me as I turn on the water in the shower, and when I’m satisfied that the temperature is just right, I step inside and ease her onto the floor.
“Turn around, baby,” I order, and for a wonder, she obeys.
I quickly dispose of the condom, then squirt a portion of shampoo in my palm, shift my body to make sure Poppy is warm and wet under the spray, then massage the suds into herhair. I’m growing hard again as I watch trails of foamy bubbles slip down her body, dipping in and out of the curves of her shoulders, the hollow of her collarbones, the valley of her spine, the roundness of her hips. The globes of her ass. The apex of her thighs.
My cock nudges her side as I move to tip her head back and rinse away the shampoo, and she tilts her head to smile up at me.
“Do I really turn you on that much?”
I drop my mouth to hers and kiss her deeply, my hands wet with water and soap as they glide over her tits, cup the swell of her breasts, tweak the metal in her nipples. Her hips roll against me, and I smile against her mouth.
“Yeah. You really turn me on that much.”
But the most important task for me right now is taking care of my woman, so when her hair is rinsed clean and I’ve run a slick of conditioner through the ends, I take a palmful of body wash and soap up her body. My hands pass down her arms and over her breasts again, and I fall to my knees on the wet tiles to run my hands up her legs, sweeping slowly over ankles and calves and knees to her thighs. I spread them open, washing away the sticky residues of our orgasms, gently caressing her pussy as I work, and bestowing a soft kiss to her clit because I can’t help myself. Poppy’s breath shudders in response.
As I circle the suds over her stomach, I trace the shapes and lines of her tattoos and wonder what each mark means. The chain of daisies seems obvious—if Poppy were ever going to get a tattoo for someone, it would be for her best friend—but the rest is just swirls and dust and bluebirds and dragonflies hiding a brass lamp and a half-bitten apple. A cricket and a seashell. A stack of books and pirate’s hook. Tiny images hidden like treasures in the chaos needled into her skin.
“Why all the unusual tattoos?” I ask as I ghost my finger over a small green frog.
Poppy glances down at me with an amused lift to one eyebrow. “Who says they’re unusual?”
Trails of water drip down her body, and I lick at the one passing over the outline of the spinning wheel. “Okay. So, what’s this one about?”
“Sleeping Beauty—Olivia’s favorite princess.”
I’ve watched enough cartoons with Izzy to know the story but I’m struggling to figure out where Olivia fits in.
“And Olivia is…?”
“The third kid I nannied after I left Aster Springs. Eight years old. Bright red hair. Sweet freckles. Spirit of a rebel.”
The realization that Poppy has inked her body to remind herself of a kid she’s loved—and left behind—makes me hope that the next mark I point out isn’t another symbol of her losses.
“The frog?” she asks as I set a finger to the little animal just above her hip. “That one’s for Darius. Fifth kid I nannied. He was six years old and had the biggest, darkest eyes you’ve ever seen. So serious. His mom passed the year before I met him, andThe Frog Princewas their favorite book.”
I swallow with difficulty and trace the outline of a pumpkin. “Cinderella?”
“Yep. That one’s for Karley. Second kid I nannied. She was three years old and had the wildest blonde curls. Attitude to match too. I adored that kid.”
I trace them all one at a time and Poppy tells me about the child who put it there. Their name and age and when she nannied for them and what made them special. She doesn’t stumble once. Every detail of every child she’s ever loved is burned forever into her brain.
My knees ache almost as painfully as my heart when we reach the last one. Three intricate snowflakes.
“The one with the snow queen,” I guess, gracing them with a kiss before climbing to my feet. “Am I right?”
