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Incredibly, tears sting my eyes, and I busy myself lathering the sponge with the sweet smelling white soap that seems to be made of milk and clouds.
What the hell, Layla? Stop with this crap. You’re not a child. You knew what you signed up for from the start.
Sex. Pure, exciting sex.
Not a happily ever after.
Besides, what’s to say what you feel is love? It’s post-traumatic stress syndrome, or something like that. This closeness, this connection you think you feel will fade soon.
You’ll see.
He says nothing as I lift the sponge to his chest, his eyes bright, his hand still holding me close. He makes no move to stop me, change this into something else. The Hawk I know—the Hawk I thought I knew—would have pushed me against the edge of the pool and buried himself deep inside of me by now, not asking.
I used to love that. I still do.
But he’s hurt, I remind myself. It’s not that he doesn’t want me, if his hard dick is any indication. He’s just letting me wash him.
And that’s a power play, too. Cleaning him up, running the sponge over his smooth, hard chest, over taut pecs and small nipples, is turning me on, and he smirks like he knows it.
I bet he knows it. He knows me, and my body’s reactions too well.
I turn more toward him as I pass the sponge over his shoulders, up his neck, along his arms. His muscular forearms are inked, too, text that curves around his taut flesh. One reads, Vivo Ut Serviam. The other Ad Serviam Veritatem.
I wonder what they mean.
Then my thoughts trail off again, because the sweet vanilla smell of the soap is not enough to cover his male musk. It’s pungent, spicy. It makes saliva pool in my mouth. It makes my skin prickle and my breath catch.
The sponge drops from my hand.
He catches it and lifts it to my chest. Runs it over my breasts. Over my oversensitive nipples. A moan catches in my throat.
“We can clean each other up,” he says and drags me against him, his dick throbbing between our bodies, the piercings hard pinpricks pressing into my skin. “I think it’s fair.”
I swallow, my mind fuzzy, not sure if this is a dream or reality. The walls are white, the ceiling high, the light faintly yellow, coming from recesses in the walls. The tiny gray tiles of the floor around us gleam, the same under our feet at the bottom of the huge tub.
And he’s here, his beard and hair dark with water, his eyes shining with desire, his big, strong body flush with mine.
“You know…” he says, running the sponge leisurely over my boobs, and God, can I come just from that? I squirm against him. “I’ll need more help.”
“You will?” I barely recognize my own voice, so thick with excitement.
“Uh-huh. Can’t bend over to reach between my legs.” The sponge trails away from my boobs, passes over my shoulders, first the one, then the other. It trails back down, circling one nipple, then the other.
“You can’t, huh?” Holy crap, what is he doing to me?
“Nah. Need you, babe.”
He means nothing by it, I remind myself, my breath tripping as he brushes the sponge lower, under the water, down my belly. It’s just about sex.
“You need me, too,” he says, and the sponge moves lower, touching my mound.
“Ugh.” Can’t form coherent thoughts, not when the roughness of the sponge rubs lower, spreading my legs, brushing… oh Lord, brushing over my clit, and I tremble.
“Was that a yes?” He steadies me with one hand on my waist as the other slithers the sponge down my seam, setting off small explosions of pleasure. “Do you need me?”
Not sure what he’s asking. Too much seems hidden between the words, and I’m shaking, my body poised on an edge I didn’t realize I had reached so fast, just from his light touch and his words. His nearness, and his heat.
“Say it,” he commands me, the sponge traveling back up, drawing circles over my swollen clit, and I whine, clutching at his arms so hard I have to be leaving bruises. “Say it, Layla.”
