The walls rattle, and I hear the familiar sound of the house’s old pipes groaning to life.
“Duncan?” I call, walking upstairs. The bathroom door is open, and a straight column of light partially fills the hallway.
I walk past the doorway, see him standing behind the fogged up glass of the shower. His body is blurred by all the steam, but I can see that he is running his hands through his hair, like he’s stressed out to hell and back.
“You okay?” I say, feeling a little silly for even asking it. It could very well be that he is not okay after hearing what Dad just told us, that he’s going to be facing the best of the best as nothing but a rookie fighter, even if he is exceptional already.
But I have to ask it… I realize I genuinely care. I want to know if he’s not okay. I want him to tell me so.
I don’t get a reply, though, and so I figure he probably wants to be alone. I decide to leave him to himself for a bit, let him shower in peace.
But as I turn to walk away, I feel wet fingers on my hand, and he’s right there, naked, dripping, and pulling me into the bathroom. His fingers are on the zip of my dress pulling down, and then he’s slipping the dress over my shoulders, and sliding it down my body until it’s just a puddle of fabric around my feet on the floor.
He flicks apart the clasp of my strapless bra easily, lets it drop. His eyes are on mine as he pushes his fingers beneath the elastic of my underwear, pulls it down my legs. I step out of them, and for only the second time ever I’m naked in front of him, bared to him.
His eyes travel slowly up and down my body, and a moment longer I might have gotten nervous or insecure, but he doesn’t let it go that long. He wraps me up into his arms, pulls me tight against his slick body, his hard manhood pressed up between us, and he whispers into my ear, “I’ve missed you so fucking much.”
I let him guide me into the shower, and once we are both under the hot stream of water, he worships me.
His lips run a fiery trail from my chin to my ear, down my neck to my shoulder, and across my collar bone. His hands and fingers touch every inch of my body, savor my curves, knead me and caress me, get me all wound-up.
I find his lips, seek his kiss, and he claims mine, a kiss somehow both tender and powerful, as if he means to tell me that he’ll treasure me, but that I’m also his, and his alone.
His lips are so soft against me, but every now and then I feel the press of his teeth, just a teasing, gentle bite, and it makes me smile, makes me hum.
But then he breaks the kiss, and he does something really strange… strange to me, at least. Something I would never have expected.
He begins to wash my hair. He does it with a kind of determined concentration and care, making sure that no shampoo gets into my eyes. It’s the most thorough wash I can remember, and when he conditions my hair, he rubs it into every single strand of hair methodically, and I am reminded of calculating way in which he wrapped my hands with the fighting tape.
I find it strange because it is so totally at odds with what I know of him so far. What I see on the outside is a hard, tattooed body of someone who does what he wants. I see a cage fighter, someone who beats other people up simply because he’s good at it.
I never expected that he could be like this. I feel like something delicate in his large, strong hands, something small, but I feel safe. His hands are not rough with me, they are only caring.
“It’ll all be okay,” he tells me, as if I’m the one who just found out that all the other bosses would be bringing in their best fighters to try and break me. As if I’m the one who has to climb into that cage and fight a man who is going to stop only two inches short of snapping my neck.
He rinses my hair, and when I shut my eyes to stop water from getting in them, I feel his lips close around my lower lip, and he bites it.
I grin, try to kiss him back but he pulls away, and then when I’m not expecting it he takes my lip again playfully, kisses me again.
I fall into him, wrap my arms around him, determined not to let him pull away again, and his kiss grows hungry, urgent, and our tongues dance, and the shower washes away the taste of him to my dismay.
We kiss for ages, holding onto each other, and with my confidence growing, I reach down in between us and grip onto his manhood, start pumping him.
“What are you doing?” I breathe as he turns me, wraps me up from behind. My back is against his chest, and I can feel his hard body, his heat, and I hold onto his powerful arms, let him kiss the back of my shoulder, right where it touches my neck.
I feel a longing for him in my belly, and when his hands run up my sides, over my curves, roam my body, I arch my back, turn my head up toward his chin and neck.
In his arms, I let him touch me, run his hands up and down my body, roll my nipples and squeeze my breasts, bring me to the tips of my toes.
“You’re so fucking sexy,” he says.
His hot breath on my neck makes me feel so wobbly, and constantly in my mind is the thought that I can’t believe we’re doing this, here, now. Dad and Frank could come home at any minute!
His hand runs over my belly, and my longing for him grows, and I feel hot beneath my skin, hot down there.
His fingers sidle slowly south until he reaches the bulge of my pearl. I’m breathing hard against him, and I reach behind me, grip onto his hardness, hold him, feel his desire for me. His breath quickens, the movements of his chest speed up.
“Fuck, Dee,” he growls. “I want you so fucking much.”
His fingers dip into me for a moment, and I feel how slick I am, how swollen I am for him. It’s fleeting, a hint of pleasure, and then he pulls his finger up, pulls a moan from my mouth, and starts to rub my clit.
My hand stops moving, I can’t concentrate anymore on him. I relax against his body, let him touch me, let him own me, let him do what he wants to me. I know he’s going to make me feel so good.
But he just teases me, and somehow it’s both sexy and frustrating. His finger moves slowly, and I crane my neck to the side, look at the side of his dripping face.
“Come on,” I tell him breathlessly.
He leans forward, takes my lips in his, kisses me, and at the same time he rubs me faster, just the way he knows I like it.
I moan into his mouth, shut my eyes tight, stay lip-locked with him. I clutch onto his thighs on either side of me unconsciously, give in to him completely. I open my legs wider, give him more of me.
His kiss takes on a feverishness, becomes aggressive, and I feel his tongue in my mouth, and I meet it with mine, but I can barely concentrate as he rubs me, as he plays me like an instrument.
I writhe in his grip, undulate, moan and whimper. He makes me feel so good, and already I can feel the pressure inside my belly growing. Oh, God, I want more, I want to come, it’s like a blinding light on the horizon that I’m racing toward.
I break the kiss, look into his beautiful eyes, now darker with his desire.
“Make me come,” I practically beg, and I feel his fingers speed up, feel his press harden, and I groan, pushing my head back onto his shoulder, my mouth open.
So quickly he brings me right there, right to the edge, and my body becomes tight as a tripwire. I tense up, squeeze, feel it in my belly, that growing pressure that’s going to blow.
But then he pulls me back, and I turn accusing eyes on him.
“Stop it,” I say, but then he’s bringing me there again, and he pulls his other hand down my body, rings my entrance.
I’m in bliss when he pushes his finger inside me. I stretch around his thick finger, moan as he presses my front wall, makes me feel impossibly better.
I grip onto his legs like, and I feel his cock twitch against my back, and his lips and breath by my ear.
I’m his. He plays me. He controls me.
His rhythm speeds up, he fingers me faster and harder, and I feel my crisis racing toward me.
“Oh God,” I groan, eyes shut tight, pleasure thrumming through me. The spring inside me is so wound up, coiling tighter and tighter.
I crunch my stomach, lean forward, inching closer and closer.
“Shit!” I hiss, white-hot bliss crashing over me as I come hard. I inhale deeply, hold my breath, squeeze around his finger. Pleasure explodes inside me, radiates down to the tips of my curled toes.
I’m soaring, in orbit, I feel so, so good.
I keep squeezing, he keeps going, and he makes it last, makes me feel this sharp pleasure for so long, and then it’s waning, ebbing, and I shiver and shudder, the tsunami of ecstasy now turning to slow, rolling waves that thrum through my body.
I love every moment of this, being in his arms, him making me feel so good, being his.
I’m coming down, and my whole body feels wobbly and weak, and I suddenly feel so, so tired.
Duncan kisses my neck, pulls his fingers from me, up to his mouth, and he sucks on them, sucks all my pleasure off them.
“I love how you taste,” he says, and he claims my lips in his. I can taste myself on him but I don’t care.
I’m a ragdoll, loose, panting, flushed, hot.
I grin, rub his thighs, reach around my back and feel his still-hard cock. I’m just about to turn around, to pleasure him like he pleasured me, when the pipes belch and the water hitches for just a second.
The shower dumps freezing water on us. The hot water tank has run out.
I scream, jump out of the shower laughing, quickly dry myself off with a towel. He seems unaffected by it, shuts off the stream and steps out. I toss him his towel, and we dry up in the steamy, warm bathroom, before darting across the hallway into my bedroom.