Page 146 of Wallflower

He grips himself so hard I don’t know how it doesn’t hurt.

Turning, I bend to pick up my discarded pants.

“Flower…” he growls.

“Tick-tock,” I call over my shoulder, striding down the hallway to the bedroom.

He’s hot on my trail, but when I dip into our room, he keeps going. Moving to the front door to drop off his shoes. I wrap the plastic bag covered jar in the bandana, and shove it into the back of the bedside table drawer.

Moving quickly to the ensuite, I strip, tossing my clothes into the washer and starting a load. Initially, I thought it was weird that the laundry was in the bathroom, but now it just makes sense. It was only him living here, why have to travel to a completely different area when all your dirty clothes would be in the hamper in your room anyway?

I dart into the shower, turning the water on before it has a chance to warm up.

“Not going to wait for me?” Rip calls out, entering the bedroom.

No I’m not, I have to scrub every spec of this from my skin before he so much as lays a finger on me.

I manage to get my hair and body washed before he steps into the bathroom, figure distorted through the fogged up glass.

He strips for me, so fucking slowly. If I wasn’t paranoid about accidentally infecting him, I’d drag him in here already.

Ripley’s dark eyes bore into me, following the path of my hand as I leisurely wash a second time, allowing the conditioner time to saturate my slowly splitting ends.

He pushes the grey joggers down his muscular thighs, boxers going with them, as I spread the suds across my abdomen. I dip my fingers between my thighs, breathing sharply when a zap of desire zips through me.

A muffled groan meets my ears, the cascading water drowning out the potency of it. Ripley grips his cock, stroking slow. The lewdness of his partially obscured form makes my mouth water. Nothing sayssorry I’m about to kill your head of securitylike a world-rocking blow job. Right?

Finally, his body slides in next to mine, hard cock brushing along my heated skin. Arching my back, I rinse the conditioner from my dark hair. Even with my eyes closed, I feel his gaze on me.

Rip’s fingers drag up my stomach, awakening a pulse between my thighs. His hand cups my breast, hot mouth coming down over my nipple, as the other arm bands around my lower back. Effortlessly, he lifts me, turning us as he steals my spot beneath the hot spray.

His body abandons mine, a sexy little smirk plastered on his gorgeous face as he soaks his hair, rinsing away the sweat and salty ocean water.

Grabbing the loofa, I coat it with soap while he’s busy washing his hair. Slowly, I run it over his body, attempting to scrub away whatever was bothering him enough that he needed to leave.

“What are you doing?”

“Washing you.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“I can do it.”

“Do you want me to stop?” I drag the sponge down his abdomen, grazing gently over his straining erection, to wash the top of his thigh.

“No,” he grumbles.

“Then stop bitching and let me take care of you.”

“I’m not a child,” he snaps. As usual, he sidesteps the new emotions, trying to grab onto something he understands.

“Well aware, Rip. You probably didn’t have anyone to take care of you then, either, which is why you’re such an ass about me doing the smallest thing now,” I bitch back, sick and tired of this fucking dance I know isn’t his fault.

His silence is answer enough. Instead of letting the moment ruin this, I continue to lather up his skin. Proving to him that my touch isn’t meant as painful or predatory, and I won’t back down from him or his repressed pain.

“Turn,” I instruct, and he complies, hanging his head as the water runs down around his stoic face.