Harris seemed to recognize all of this. He pushed me so my back was against the wall, the water beating against my front. He had a bar of soap in his hand, and proceeded to scrub me with it, all over. He started with my face, telling me in a gruff whisper to close my eyes, then washed my face and rinsed it carefully. He moved to my neck and shoulders, tugging me forward to wash my back while kissing me between my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Then he roamed over my b.r.e.a.s.t.s with the soap bar, and G.o.d, that was s.e.xy, intimate, tender...too much to handle. I closed my eyes and let him wash me. Thighs, core, a.s.s, all over, kissing me clean everywhere. I was breathless by the time he was done, and tried to take the soap from him, but he just knocked my hands away and pulled me under the water to wash my hair. He had bottles of complimentary hotel shampoo and conditioner, and used them both on my thick, curly black hair, working them in one after another, ma.s.saging my scalp.

I was finally clean, head to toe.

I reversed positions with Nick, and did the same for him, washing him from head to toe, but I made sure to avoid his erogenous zones at first. Meaning, I washed his hair first, and then ran the soap over his lean, hard, toned body, only touching his c.o.c.k at the end. By this time his erection had subsided to a drooping semi, but I made short work of this sad fact. I lathered soap onto my hands and then worked it onto his c.o.c.k and b.a.l.l.s, ma.s.saging gently, just washing him at first, and then as I rinsed him clean began stroking him to full erection.

G.o.d, the man had a lovely c.o.c.k. Seriously. I've seen and handled a lot of c.o.c.k, and his was-objectively speaking-the best I'd ever gotten my hands on. I mean, it wasn't about sheer size. I'd seen bigger. But there is actually such a thing as too big, in my opinion at least. It's more about overall shape, for me. Size factors in, clearly, and Nick had size in spades. He wasn't hung like a horse in any literal sense, which was perfect for me. I could tell as I explored his d.i.c.k with my hands that he'd fill me enough that I'd feel pleasurably stretched. Big, thick, long, but just perfectly shaped, mostly straight but with a very slight curve, and that curve...I shivered with antic.i.p.ation-when he was inside me he'd hit me just right, and I was looking forward to it.

Like, a LOT.

I may have gotten a little carried away, stroking him in the shower. The water had gone cold, but I didn't care. It felt good, the cool water on my skin. I had both fists around his c.o.c.k and was stroking him, not trying to get him off, just...playing with his length, pausing now and then to cup and ma.s.sage his heavy b.a.l.l.s, rolling them in my palms. No mouth, this time, I just touched. Learned. Explored.

And he let me. He watched, head leaned back against the tile, hands on my shoulders, thumbs circling on my skin in idle affection. And that idle touch, it was enough to make me almost panic, because it was unconscious, the kind of touch that means so much, more than any s.e.xual touching. It was like the way he had of brushing his thumb across my lips. Tender. Affectionate. Meaningful.

When I had him breathing hard and had his hips fluttering with the smooth, slow strokes of my fingers around him, Nick lifted me to my feet, shut off the water, and indicated with a push that he wanted me out of the shower. He made quick work of drying us both, and then hauled me into the bedroom. Hot humid air immediately coated my skin. Nick's eyes roamed down my body, and his lip curled up in a hungry smile.

"Now we're both clean. No more excuses."

"Excuses?" I asked.

He didn't bother answering. He just pushed me up against the bed. Before he bent me forward, however, he pressed himself up against me, erection nestling between the heavy globes of my a.s.s, pulled me backward so my head rested on his shoulder, and kissed me, traced my lips with his thumb. He bent at the knees, his hand cupping my throat, holding me against him, and his c.o.c.k nudged against my entrance.

"Oh G.o.d. Nick..."

"You want it, don't you?"

I nodded. "Jesus, yes."

"Say it, Layla."

"I want your c.o.c.k inside me, Nick. I want you to f.u.c.k me."

He kissed me once more, and then his c.o.c.k filled me with one hard thrust, and a scream ripped out of me.

Oh holy f.u.c.k.

This was going to be incredible.

13.

f.u.c.kED.

One short, hard thrust, and his c.o.c.k was fully seated inside me, filling me, stretching me. Still standing up, his hand gently gripping my throat to keep me in place-as if I was trying to escape-I was rendered helpless. Totally helpless. I couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't think. The only thing that existed in my whole universe was Harris, big and hard and hot behind me, his d.i.c.k inside me, his hand on my throat, the other strumming my nipple like a guitar string.

He didn't move. Time stood still, and the only sound was my ragged gasps and his steady breathing. His lips touched my temple, and I trembled.

What the f.u.c.k was he doing?

To kiss a body is s.e.xual, to press lips to chest or hip or c.o.c.k or p.u.s.s.y or belly, that's s.e.x. To make out, that's s.e.x.

To kiss one's face, one's cheek, one's forehead, a temple, a jaw...that is intimate and personal.

I didn't do intimate.

I didn't do personal.

To quote a certain fictional phenomenon, "I f.u.c.k. Hard." I didn't connect with those particular characters on any level, except for the intimacy factor. Even with Eric, my one real serious boyfriend, the only man I ever lived with, the only guy I ever let see even a hint of my true inner self, even with him I didn't really do intimacy. s.e.x was s.e.x. Eric and I f.u.c.ked. We boned. Don't get me wrong, I liked Eric. A lot. I dated him for a long time, and lived with him. But I didn't do intimacy with him. There was no pillow talk. There was no kissy-face hold me afterward and tell me your deepest thoughts and share your most tender emotions.

He never kissed my temple.

Harris kissed my temple, one brief, slow, and utterly confusing touch of his lips to the side of my skull, and I was lost.

Not like, falling in love lost, or drowning in his touch lost, but the what the f.u.c.k is happening and where am I and what's going on kind of lost.

And then, wildest of all, my body betrayed my heart. My hand reached up and back, and my palm cupped the nape of his neck and my head twisted to the side and my mouth sought skin and my heart was crashing and thundering and cracking and twisting and my mind was rebelling, but my body was in control. My body had hijacked the rest of me.

My lips sought skin, and found it. Found his jaw. His cheekbone. I clutched the back of his head and trembled like a dry leaf in a long wind.

And still he wasn't moving. Seemingly content to just hold the pose, both of us standing up facing the bed, his shaft buried deep inside my slit, my body boneless and without strength, leaning with total trust against Harris's chest.

A breath left me in a broken sigh, and I sank down, letting my weight fall just a bit, pushing him deeper. I couldn't take the motionlessness, couldn't take the shredding intimacy of his breath on my cheek, his wordless possession of me. I couldn't handle the memory of that kiss to my temple. I needed...more.

"Nick..." I murmured.

"I know," he said, and pushed me forward.

Willingly, gladly, I bent over the bed, spread my feet shoulder-width apart, braced myself with arms straight, elbows locked, hands on the mattress. I waited. Breathless with antic.i.p.ation, with bated breath, with every other cliche you can think of, I waited.

And Harris, he kept me waiting. Didn't give me what I wanted, didn't do what I expected. Instead of thrusting hard, pushing into me, he leaned over me and pressed his lips to my spine, right at the center of my back, ran his palms up my sides. I shook so hard I had to clench my teeth. What the actual f.u.c.k was he doing?

Another caress, downward this time, from armpits down my sides to cup my hips, then his palms circled my a.s.s cheeks. He pulled back, withdrawing. I bit my lip, waiting for the rough slam...

He pushed in gently, slowly, and I sagged, at once defeated and exhilarated. So good. So f.u.c.king good. The feel of him, moving in me. The sweet wet slide of his c.o.c.k pushing into me, I groaned with delight.

He leaned over me as his hips pressed flush against my a.s.s. His lips touched the sh.e.l.l of my ear. "Rough...or slow?"

"Rough," I answered immediately.

He bit my earlobe. Hard.

I shrieked in surprise and twisted my head to look at him in shock, and he just grinned as he straightened behind me, running his palm down my spine to grab a handful of b.u.t.t cheek. "Rough?"

I nodded. "Rough."

"How rough you want it, Layla?"

"f.u.c.k me hard, Nick."

He pulled back so the tip of his c.o.c.k rested just barely inside me, caressed the left globe of my a.s.s with his left hand, gripping the crease of my right hip with his right hand.

There was no warning. He slammed into me so hard the breath left me involuntarily and his hand smacked my a.s.s with a painful resounding crack.

I screamed.

I'm not a screamer. I'm a moaner, a gasper, a p.o.r.n star whimperer. When I come, I usually clench my teeth and groan through them. I do not scream.

Nick made me scream.

He paused a moment, impaled fully inside me. Then he smoothed his palm over the stinging flesh of my bottom, and then withdrew, slowly. So slowly. Then he spanked my a.s.s and f.u.c.ked into me again, hard. I felt his c.o.c.k spear through me, slam deep, felt his b.a.l.l.s slap against my taint, and my a.s.s cheek jiggled and stung from the smack of his palm. This time, there was no pause, no hesitation. Just the slow, almost tender withdrawal, and then immediately upon reaching the apex of his pull-out, Harris spanked me and thrust again. My left a.s.s cheek was on fire, by now. My p.u.s.s.y was throbbing, and I was fighting for breath, for equilibrium.

He switched it, then. Right hand spanking right a.s.s cheek, left hand gripping my left hip bone.

Smack.

Smack.

Smack.

Each slap of his hand was accompanied by a jarringly hard thrust.

Four spanks per side, four thrusts. Then he switched, back and forth, back and forth. No rhythm, no pattern. Always the slow pull-out, an infinitesimal pause, and then the slam into me.

I lost track of time, never counted the thrusts or spanks. All I knew was that I was throbbing and aching, that my a.s.s was burning and stinging and that with each spank it hurt more but that with each spank the thrusts incited the fire inside my core to burn hotter, made each brutally powerful thrust of his c.o.c.k into me that much more intense.

I lost the ability to bite down on my screams.

He spanked and thrust, and I screamed as he rammed home.

I don't know how, but he knew when I was close. Maybe it was that as I neared climax, I started pushing back as he f.u.c.ked me. Or maybe it was that whimpers and groans filled the s.p.a.ces between screams. I don't know how, but he knew.

And right as I reached the edge, he pulled completely out of me, leaving me empty and ready to beg.

He grabbed my left hip in his right hand and flipped me over, putting me off balance, tossing me over as easily as if I was some skinny size-nothing floozy. Just tossed me over like I was nothing. I sagged back against the bed, fighting for balance, struggling to get my feet under me.

Harris was there, grasping the backs of my knees and lifting me, his hips fitting into the V of my thighs, c.o.c.k nudging my entrance. I wasn't balanced, had no control. He had me totally helpless, my upper torso resting on the bed, my lower half in his grip.

"Do I need a condom?"

I shook my head. "No, I'm protected, and I'm clean."

"Do you trust me?"

f.u.c.k, what a question. Did I trust him? I mean, my life was in his hands. He'd risked death for me, killed for me, and that was just within the last couple hours. But did I trust him to f.u.c.k me bare, no protection against disease? Did he trust me to actually be on birth control, that I wouldn't come up pregnant, and that I really was clean?

So much trust.

So foolish.

Stupid, even.

I'm impulsive. Rash. I do whatever I want, when I want. I don't always think about the consequences of my decisions. If I f.u.c.k up, and I handle it. The one exception to this is s.e.x. I was on birth control by the time I was fourteen, and I never, ever, ever had unprotected s.e.x. Not with anyone. Not ever. Not even when I was wasted. If he didn't have a bag, he didn't bag me. That was the one unalterable, inflexible rule I never broke, no matter what. Not even with Eric, in the nearly three years we were together, we didn't have bare s.e.x even once.

So why, oh why did I lift my hips in silent agreement, then, with Harris?

Simple. Same answer as why I was so affected by an innocent kiss to my temple: I have no f.u.c.king clue.

I lifted my hips, pushing against him, angling and lifting so his c.o.c.k slipped into me.

Harris didn't push in, though. "Say it, Layla. Out loud." His eyes were fiery jade, unblinking, unwavering, intense, pinning me.

"I trust you, Nick." Jesus, I sounded breathy. Seductive. Vulnerable.

Clearly, some other spirit had possessed me, because this wasn't me. This wasn't Layla.

I didn't breathe out a whimper like that, no f.u.c.king way. When Harris finally thrusted into me, I whimpered. I know I said I wasn't a screamer, that I made pretty typical almost fake-sounding p.o.r.n star sounds during s.e.x. In fact, I've been accused of faking just because of how I sound. But I never faked, it was just how I sounded.

This, though? When Harris slowly and deliberately thrust into me, the way I made this...I don't even know the right word...moan, whimper, sigh-a sound that was all three of those in one, a moan-whimper-sigh. It wasn't me. I never sounded like that. No matter how good it felt.

But that was the problem, wasn't it? Nothing had ever felt like this before. Not the way Harris drove into me, not the way he filled me. Not the way he held me completely in his thrall, helpless.

I pulled back from the edge of climax.

It only took him four slow thrusts to get me there again. He watched me, watched my face, my expressions. I felt his attention, laser-focused, hyper-aware. I hooked my legs around his waist and he slid his palms to my a.s.s, keeping me aloft with a firm grip of each hand on the globes of my a.s.s. His fingers were at the crease of my b.u.t.tocks, daring in, separating the cheeks. Literally, he had my entire a.s.s cheeks gripped, one in each hand, and he was holding the entire weight of my lower body aloft with that grip.

I felt the pressure of his fingers against my a.s.shole, nudging but not pushing in.

He'd want in there, at some point.

I'd let him. s.h.i.t, I'd probably beg him for it, if this was how it was going to feel with him.

Once he was sure of his hold on me, once he was sure I was close, he settled closer, leaning deeper into the V of my thighs, pushing his c.o.c.k as far in as it would go.

And then he started f.u.c.king.

Oh. Oh Jesus. Oh s.h.i.t.

This was real-deal f.u.c.king. He left me no breath, left me no quarter, had no mercy. I'd asked for it rough, he gave it to me rough. Hard. He didn't ask if I was ready, didn't ease into it. Just...a single growling murmur of appreciation for my body, and he started f.u.c.king, ramming me hard over and over and over, so my whole body was jarred with each thrust.

"Play with your t.i.ts, Layla. Pinch your nipples."

I obeyed, cupping my big, bouncing b.r.e.a.s.t.s in my hands and thumbing my nipples erect, and then pinched them.

"Hard, Layla. Make yourself scream."