Page 104 of The Path to Loving Him
I’m transfixed as he moves to the other arm. He washes all the paint off, then rinses the washcloth and adds more soap. When he’s done with my arm, he moves the terrycloth fabric over my chest and around my neck. His touch is such an entrancing sensation that when he reaches my breasts, I lift my chest out of the water so he has a better angle.
He clears his throat again, his eyes focused on the task as he circles my breasts a few times. I tamp down my moan, but I can’t stop my nipples from growing hard, nor can I stop the dull throb erupting between my legs.
After a few more circles, he dips his hand under the water to wash across my stomach and right below my belly button.
God. Yes.
I gulp a quick breath as he lifts one of my legs and gently washes the paint off, avoiding my inner thighs. The terrycloth fabric caresses over my knee and down my shin to my foot. I bite on my inner cheek as I feel a bolt of lust shoot up my leg from the touch. And when he pays the same attention to my other leg, it only increases the need inside me.
The need that I shouldn’t be considering.
That I should be tamping down.
And stuffing away.
Yet when he says, “Spread,” I listen to that dark, dangerous voice and spread my legs wide enough for him to bring the washcloth right to my pussy. He runs it along my slit a few times, and when I gasp from the touch, he pauses . . .
His eyes connect with mine.
My mind begs for his fingers to slip inside me.
My teeth pull on my lip while my chest heaves.
I can see it in his expression, the word “fuck” on the tip of his tongue as his heady eyes fall to my lips.
“Do it,” I beg.
Touch me.
Break the rules and give us both what we want.
But to my chagrin, he pulls away.
Leaving me in a state of bottled-up yearning.
A bothered state.
One where I’m turned on that will require release.
I want to groan.
Protest.
Beg him to return.
But I can’t as he sets the washcloth down, turns on the handheld sprayer, and wets my hair.
Surprised, I ask, “What are you doing?”
“Washing your hair,” he replies as he finishes soaking my long blonde strands.
I should tell him he doesn’t need to, but I want to feel his fingers in my hair because I’m so desperate, and he’s worked me up so much.
He picks up the shampoo, and I hear him squirt some into his hand. He rubs his palms together and gently massages the soap into my scalp.
And it’s the most delicious feeling of my life.
Mmmm, yes.
