Chapter Thirty-Seven
I wake to his gaze.
A gaze as hot and penetrating as a ray of morning sunlight.
As my head lolls off his shoulder, I realize I’m still draped across him. In the same position we fell asleep in last night.
I’d wanted more, but he’d been tired from the exertions of his day, so he was asleep and snoring—he never snores—before I could even beg for a second go, his arms locked around me, keeping me on top of him.
I’d lain there for a long time, listening to the even beat of his heart, and for the first time in never, maybe because I was locked so safely in his arms, I fell asleep in silence.
Our gazes tangle for an indeterminable moment. Finally, he mumbles, “Sorry for falling asleep on you last night.” He sighs. “My day was…long.”
Idly, I trail a lazy finger up and down a crooked vein in his neck. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Maybe.”
Meaning, I can ask but he might not answer…or he might lie.
“Do you have another flat somewhere?” I hope he chooses not to lie. “I ask because I notice that most times you leave in one outfit but return in another. Yesterday morning, for instance, you left in a T-shirt and jeans, but when I saw you later in the evening, you were wearing a suit.”
“Something like that.” His hand cruises down to rub over my bum. “Can’t always make it back home to change if I’ve got somewhere to be.”
I push up on an elbow, my hair tumbling to one side. “Where?”
His hand gropes my bum, and my greedy body reacts. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Are you living some kind of double life, or something?”
He barks out a laugh. “Is that a serious question? Everyone on the team is living a double life.”
“Yes, I know that,” I grit out, annoyed that he’s laughing at me. “But it feels like you’re living a double double life.”
With guarded eyes and a quasi-authentic smile, he gently swats my bum and sits up so I’m straddling his lap. “Stop thinking so hard. You’ll hurt your brain.”
“What about this place?” I push. “Is it yours?”
“No. It’s a guesthouse. I wanted a night alone with you.”
“So you could murder my innocence with no witnesses?”
“Speaking of which…” He glances down between us where there’s dried blood on my thighs and smudging his. The sight should disgust me, disgust us both, but all it does it make my stomach twist with need as I remember how it felt to have him moving inside of me.
“We should get rid of the evidence,” he says.
I mock a gasp. “How dare you ask me to aid in covering up this brutal act.”
He presses a kiss to my nose, scoots to edge of the bed with me, and stands. My legs lock around him.
He takes us to the bathroom.
The luxury continues in here, too, with clean lines, glossy steel and clear glass, pristine terry cloth, fancy bath oils and bodywash.
He snags a washcloth from a folded pile on a glass shelf, never breaking his stride until he’s at the shower door.
He sets me down, swings the door open, and waves me in.
I go in.
He steps in behind me and takes complete control, scrubbing me clean under the spraying hot water. He lathers and rinse me, and goes down on his knees to ensure, with gentle care, that my southern region is squeaky clean—because he’s all kinds of meticulous and compulsive like that.
Then he makes me rest my head on his chest while he washes my hair with contented leisure.
Once he’s done, he orders me to take a seat on the shower bench at other end, while he bathes himself—refusing to let me return the favor.
My sex has been throbbing nonstop throughout his ministrations, and it’s only intensified now that I’m forced to watch him lather all six feet, three inches of his taut, lean self. He’s got a nice tight arse and strong legs, wide shoulders, and the musculature of his back ripples with each movement. He’s beautiful, front and back, and there’s not a damn thing about him that doesn’t turn me on.
He steps under the steaming shower and turns to face me, water chasing the soap off his body. He glances down at my clenched thighs, at my hands that are gripping the edge of the tiled bench.
“Don’t you look at me like that,” I say defensively. “You can’t possibly expect me to just sit here and not be affected.”
With his eyes locked on mine, he reaches down with the washcloth and takes hold of his stiff member.
My lips part on a hot gasp.
Up and down he drags the fisted cloth over his cock, the head swelling redder with each stroke.
“Open your legs,” he orders.
I hesitate. “I—”
“Open them.”
I do it, slowly.
“Wider,” he demands.
I go wider.
“Fuck, you’re perfect.” He sucks in a sharp breath and jerks hard on himself. “Touch yourself for me.”
My insides clench. Tentatively, I let go of the bench and bring one hand down between my legs. Focusing on his pumping fist, I rub my middle finger over my pulsing clit. An involuntary moan slips out of me, dragging a groan out of him.
“Keep going,” he orders.
And I do. I glide my fingers up and over, rubbing, pressing, going in circles, remembering all the ways he touches me.
My breath begins to quicken, pressure builds, my legs shifting wider on their own.
“Your other hand now,” he instructs. “Inside.”
My gaze glued to his hard, wet, engorged cock, I do as he instructs. I move my other hand, pushing my middle finger inside my heat.
And, sweet hell. It feels good. So good.
My mouth drops open, my breasts rising and falling with my short, pleasure-ragged breaths. My fingers work faster, rubbing with one hand and pumping with the other.
“Oh… Oh, my— Jax— Jaxon!”
My toes tip up off the tiles, and my pelvis thrusts upward.
He jerks his cock faster, harder. “It’s okay. Make yourself come, babe.”
At the word “come,” my legs press together, my eyes slam shut, and climax rips me open, wracking through me with violent, staccato tremors, his name tangled in a throat-trapped grunt of pleasure.
As I fall from glory, ripple effects of orgasm waving through me with tempered turbulence, I open my eyes and find he’s right in front of me, his redheaded member damn near touching my nose.
Taking my hands, he pulls me to my feet, cups my face, and kisses me deep, hard, and long. “You belong completely to me now.”
With an unexpected swat to my backside that makes me gasp, he steps around me, takes a seat on the bench, and pulls me astride him.
Positioning his rigid member at my entrance, he encourages me to lower myself down onto him. Once I have all of him inside me, my body opening up and accommodating him, he growls, “Ride me,” and captures one of my nipples into his mouth.
I move. I experiment. I go slow. I go fast. I pay attention to all his sounds and hisses and sudden jerks, memorizing the moves that cause them, so I can remember what he likes.
Gripping my hips, he encourages a pattern of his own. I go along with it. For a while. Then I take back control, reveling in how undone he becomes.
By me.
Yet, I’m the one who combusts first, clenching around him, shaking, screaming.
Before my orgasm begins to wane, he abruptly lifts me off him and begins fisting himself to his release.
Goes without saying, we shower again.
We attempt to get dressed to go downstairs for breakfast, but halfway through that, we wind up naked and writhing in bed again.
Eventually, around noon, we order food from room service. Then he leaves the room for an “important” phone call for over an hour.
When he returns, he powers off his phone and promises he’s all mine for the remainder of the day. No disruptions. No important calls.
But to my delight, he becomes all mine for the following day, and the day after that, too, his phone turned off the entire time, his attention all on me.
We stay in, we eat, we have sex. I talk random facts and traveling. He talks animal cruelty and superheroes.
We eat. We have sex. We talk. Repeat.
For three straight days.
I could live the rest of my life with him in this studio and never miss the outside world.
But…alas, all good things must come to an end.