My legs are like jelly. Damn that man can give good finger.
I squirt the body wash into my palm, rub my hands together, then skim them up and down his chest. His muscles bunch and flex in the wake of my fingers, and it’s like having a living work of art in front of me—all hard lines of sculpted muscle narrowing down to his jutting cock.
Eating that cake off him was the best table setting evah.
Now the remnants of the chocolate I didn’t get with my tongue are sluicing off his chest and cock. I squirt another dollop of body wash into my hand and grip his girth. I press up on my toes and nuzzle his neck and ear lobe as I work his length between our stomachs.
He tenses all over and widens his stance, bracing a palm on the wall behind me.
I find the rhythm that makes his hips and moans go wild, and when his hand grips mine to try and pull it away, I know he’s close.
I pull my head down until my forehead rests against his upper chest and I can look down at my hand, which I refuse to allow him to pull away.
God, I can’t wait to have him inside me again. Oh, wait. I still and look up.
“You’re finally understanding now, yeah?”
This time I let him pull my hand away. I nod. “Then hurry.”
“Hurry?”
“Yeah. With the cleaning. Can’t use a condom in here.” Thank God I don’t have to explain, and we rinse off in record time.
He jumps out of the shower and skids across the tile, righting himself against the counter.
“Be careful!” I grip the side of the shower door, water dripping off me onto the floor.
He snags a towel, throws it at me. I snatch it, and we both rub ourselves down as if our lives depend on it. Then we race into the room. I jump onto the bed, and he dives for his duffel. The crinkle of a condom wrapper being opened fills the room. It’s as if I’ve turned into Pavlov’s dog, because that sound now has me clenching.
I also remember there are crumbs on the comforter. I’ve no sooner yanked it off and pulled the cool sheets back than I feel his hands at my waist and his cock pressed against my ass.
I moan. “Fuck the sheets,” I say.
“Yeah. Fuck the fucking sheets.”
He lifts my leg up, resting my knee on the edge of the bed. Oh yes. I fall forward until my hands hit the bed. My skin, hot from the shower, feels as if it has extra nerve endings or something because every brush of his skin along mine is driving me wild.
And I ache. “Hurry.”
“Always wanting to move your arse faster than is wise.” He laughs. “Is this”—his hard cock shoves into me, and I gasp—“fast enough for ya?” He pulls out, the friction heating me everywhere.
“Yes. Don’t stop.”
He plunges back inside, over and over, and I’ve never experienced the term “fuck like bunnies,” but this has got to be it. We’re reduced to grunts and slapping thighs, as we both chase our release.
I can no longer hold myself up by my hands and drop to my elbows. The position has me not only open, but he’s able to drive deep into me. I reach up and rub my clit, hard, as he thrusts inside me, and that’s all it takes. Pleasure roars down my spine, and I’m spasming around him so hard it hurts. But a good kind of pain.
“In ainm Dé.” He grabs my waist and shoves into me hard, one more time, and I can feel him jerking inside me.
We both collapse onto the bed, breathing hard, and he pulls me up against him.
He squeezes me once. “Don’t be moving a muscle.”
“I don’t think I can.” Everything in me is languid heat.
He moves off the bed and pads into the bathroom. The toilet flushing is immediate as he disposes of the condom.
Soon, he’s back by my side, and we snuggle up against each other as we’re catching our breaths.
It feels great to be here, with him. His stomach growls, and I snort. “We just ate.”
“An hour ago at least. And I didn’t have lunch. And we did have a bit of a fair workout, yeah.”
Soon we’re sitting on the bed while he eats another burger and fries, chatting about the upcoming championship games for the men’s team. Unfortunately for my women’s team, we don’t have enough numbers to compete, so we’re out of the running.
Then he says, “Sorry, Claire.”
“For giving me a mind-blowing orgasm? Anytime, buddy.” I pat his knee.
He’s quiet. I quickly glance up. Oh, he’s serious.
“No, for pushing about you visiting your mam.”
“I understand. We’re good.”
“No. I think I need to tell you why. My…my mother...” He pulls in a sharp breath and slowly lets it out. I push aside his plate, and we snuggle on the bed, me holding him tight because I can feel the emotion coming off him and how hard this is.
He swallows. “She left us when I was around being seven. I don’t care to think about it much, because why should I dwell, yeah? But I think hearing about your mam and how you weren’t going to be seeing her, it triggered something. If your mam—”
He breaks off and looks at the ceiling.
I think I know what he’s getting at but can’t say. “If I have a mom who wishes for me to be in her life, I shouldn’t throw that away.”
He looks at me and brushes a hand down my head. “But it’s your life and your decision.” He pulls a strand away and looks at it. “I’m here for you whatever you’re thinking is best.”
My heart does this weird squishy thing. “Thank you.”
Chapter 22
Claire
Later that night, we’re walking down the sterile hallway of the hospital. I called and received permission to arrive after visiting hours. Conor has a tight grip on my hand. I asked him to come along, not because I need him as support but because it feels natural.
I push open the door of her room. The early evening sky makes up the far wall of her room, and a single bed in the center is hooked up to a bunch of beeping monitors. I pull in a breath and let my gaze travel up from her feet to her head. And there she is.
My mom. Whom I haven’t seen in five years.
She’s awake, and she’s staring at me with round eyes. She bites her lip. I can feel the tension in the room, and some of it’s new—tension of a reunion, of not having seen each other in too long of a time. But most of it’s familiar tension.
All my memories of feeling inadequate, of not being enough, rush back.
Even hooked up to an IV and one of those nasal oxygen things, with wires snaking to monitors, she’s still beautiful, graceful. I guaran-damn-tee you if I was in her place, I’d have crusty drool, flat hair, and under-eye bags or something.
My mom claps her hands across her stomach. “What happened to your blonde hair?”
I haven’t seen her in five years, and that’s the first thing she asks? I shunt aside the familiar irritation. “I stopped dyeing it, Mom.”
She’s silent, and the usual judgment seeps into the space between us, keeping us apart. She’s not happy that I’m no longer dyeing my hair, but I’m okay with that. I no longer see it as a failure I need to rectify.