“Wha…?” she murmured, still fuzzy with pleasure.
“I need you in my bed,” I said huskily. When I straightened up, she squeaked and clung to my neck. “Don't worry. I've got you.”
Drunk with desire, I carried her to my room and lay her down. Her eyes on me felt like fire as I hurried to strip my clothes off. I rolled on a condom and her gasp blended with my groan as I lined my cock up to her entrance and pushed inside, so slow it felt like heavenly torture. Her skin already glowed with a thin sheen of sweat. Usually I liked to fuck from behind, but for my first time with Avery, I wanted to see her face. To see her long, dark lashes flutter, her mouth opening as she moaned, so that I knew she was enjoying this just as much as I was. I'd never worked so hard for sex in my life. I didn't cook for women or bring them flowers or give them massages. So right now, I was damn well going to savor the fruits of my labor. I was going to watch Avery fall apart under me. And fall apart she did—again and again and again. Until we fell asleep still molded together, one arm around her slim waist and the other pillowing her silky head.
The next morning, I woke up to an empty bed, Avery's lingering scent, and the distant sound of water running in the bathroom. She must have slipped out at some point during the night. Maybe she felt weird about screwing me again; maybe sleeping together was still too intimate for her. Or maybe she'd just woken up before me. Whatever her reason for leaving was, I already wanted her again. Now that I'd had a taste of Avery, I couldn't give her the chance to change her mind about me. I needed her in my life—needed to touch and taste and please her every day. Just the thought of her naked curves, wet and soapy from the shower, made my cock twitch. Without bothering to get dressed, I rolled out of bed and went down the hall to join her.
Chapter 12
Avery
Hibiscus-scented steam billowed out of the shower. My hands kept pausing in my lathered hair, thick shampoo suds running down my arms, as I contemplated last night. Part of me—hell, most of me—still couldn't believe what had happened. I had had sex with Nixon. Incredible, sweaty, mindblowing sex that was even better than my fantasies. I felt languid yet full of energy, exhausted yet exhilarated. My pussy was still sore and the muscles of my hips and legs twinged from strain. In a weird way, it felt kind of satisfying … or even sexy. Like a memory written into my body. I had earned those aches and pains from pleasure. Every time I moved today, I would remember how good Nixon had felt inside me.
My breath was already coming a little quicker. Despite the hot, humid air, I realized that my nipples had tightened. Jesus, what's this man done to me? Last night, I couldn't even keep track of how many orgasms I'd had, but apparently nothing was ever enough when it came to Nixon. Just the thought of his touch made me want him all over again.
Out of all the scenarios I had pictured when I'd first moved in here, getting addicted to him definitely wasn't one of them. And I was afraid that “addiction” was the right word for it. Where did we go from here? Was he just making all that stuff up about commitment and monogamy?
The shower curtain rustled. I hurried to rinse the soap off my face just in time to see Nixon step under the spray in front of me. “W-what are you doing?” I stuttered, my eyes glued to his gorgeous body. Every dip and swell of muscle glistened with moisture. I probably looked like a horny schoolgirl at a boy band concert.
And the shower invader just grinned at me, not caring at all about my inner turmoil. “Hey, I just wanted to talk. Can I stay? Please?”
Disarmed, I managed to look into his eyes instead of further south. He had been awfully sweet over the past few days … and we did need to talk. Had he really meant everything he said last night? My curiosity—not to mention how tired I was of living in Awkward Tension Town—finally outweighed all else. “Fine,” I said, relenting. “Talk about what?”
“Just how you're feeling. A lot has happened between us in the past few days.”
“The understatement of the century,” I snorted.
He gave me an exasperated look. But there was something else there, something that seemed almost like affection. I wasn't sure I should trust myself to read that expression correctly. “Does the family thing still bother you?” he asked. “The fact that I'm your … ex-stepsister's stepbrother or whatever?”
“You mean my stepbrother, period? Uh, yeah… We've already talked about this,” I sighed. “I'm still having a hard time understanding how you aren't weirded out.”
“It's not a blood connection. It's not even a direct connection through marriage, really. You practically need a damn flowchart to explain it to people.”