And now here she was, sexy as fuck, covered in mud, obliterated, fighting another breakdown, so exhausted she had circles under her eyes, and fuck, so goddamn beautiful. Wet, muddy, straggly auburn-red hair sticking to her face and her bare shoulders, that sexy-as-sin wedding dress all splattered with mud and drooping under her big, lush, cream and ivory tits, her nipples and areolae playing peek-a-boo, hips like fuckin’ magnets for my hands, and her ass—Jesus Christ, that ass. Round, full, juicy as a peach. But she was a fuckin’ wreck. I couldn’t do a damn thing. Couldn’t touch. Couldn’t put my lips to that creamy skin of hers, couldn’t kiss away her heartbreak, couldn’t fuck her so good, so hard, for so long she’d forget the name of whatever asshole had shredded her heart.
I had to be a gentleman.
And that wasn’t me.
I drank, I fucked, and I tended bar. I didn’t do the gentleman shit. The women who came through the bar were looking for one thing, just like me. A quick, simple, easy bang. No strings, no emotions, just bodily release and feeling good for a while. I didn’t have to bother caring what they liked or thought or felt. I could read their body’s reaction to what I was doing like a book, and I got them off, and they went back to their vacation, feeling dirty for having slummed it with the local bartender.
This chick wasn’t like that.
She was class. The dress had to be worth a mint, just like the shoes she’d left on the floor of my bar and that purse on the floor of the bedroom. But it wasn’t the money. She was no rich bitch; I could smell those, and I’d fucked plenty of ’em. She was just…class. She didn’t fuck randoms. She didn’t do hookups.
Whatthefuck was I thinking? I couldn’t fuck this girl. No way, no how, never. She wasn’t meant for me. I had to tame the beast in my pants, get her clean, and let her pass the hell out.
Internal scolding finished, I steeled myself, summoned all the self-control I possessed, and set to work helping the sexiest woman I’d ever seen out of her wedding dress…knowing I wouldn’t be setting a finger on a single inch of her perfect fuckin’ skin.
I had to tug pretty hard to get the gown down past her chest and, Jesus, every time I tugged, I bared more of her tits, which not only were big, but were all natural, bouncing like fuckin’ Jell-O every time I tugged. I felt my cock hardening in my jeans, and did my best to ignore it. A few more tugs, and the dress was at her hips, and then past them, and then finally she was standing there in front of me in nothing but a white strip of lace around her hips. Bare-ass, the white string disappearing between those sweet, lush, juicy cheeks. I could see her in the mirror and—Christ, the thong didn’t cover much in front either. I mean, for real, it didn’t cover shit. Her pussy was straight up eating that skimpy little thong like a last meal, and if I didn’t have a hard-on already, I sprung hard as goddamned steel at the sight of those plump pussy lips sticking to damp white silk. Yeah, she was wet. Not just from the rain and mud, either. She was staring at me in the mirror, those ridiculous blue eyes wobbling and focusing and wavering, but fixed on me with unreadable thoughts and emotions ripping across her features and blazing in her eyes.
Fuck me.
I had to let go of her, had to clench my hands into fists and close my eyes and think about that time a delivery truck hit a puppy.
Naked old nuns.
Naked old priests.
Cold, wriggling fish.
Worms in the dirt.
When I opened my eyes, she was still staring at me in the mirror. But now I was looking, and her tits were on full display in the mirror, big, round, high, perfect, with dark silver-dollar size areolae and thick, plump, erect pink nipples, and any work I’d done to push down my erection was totally undone.
And she was just looking at me, and I swear to fuck she was thinking she wouldn’t mind if I copped a touch, if my self-control slipped a little.
“Quit fuckin’ lookin’ at me like that, Dru, swear to Christ.” My growl was the deepest, snarliest sound I think I’d ever made.
“Like what?”
“I dunno. Whatever you’re thinkin’, lookin’ at me like that, you best quit.” I tugged aside the shower curtain, adjusted the water mix so it wasn’t too hot or cold, and then grabbed her wrist in my hand. “Get in, angel.”
She stepped in, fumbled for the knob to add more hot water, and then glanced at me, steadying herself against the wall. “I’m still wearing my underwear.”
I ground my teeth, spoke through clenched molars, because now she was in my shower, all but naked, water sluicing down her skin, pasting her hair to her scalp and shoulders, and I was fighting every instinct I had, which was to climb in there with her and scrub her clean just so I could get her all dirty again.