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No Rules(78)

By:Starr Ambrose


“At the bottom of the Nile.”

She was sure there was a story there, but the question flew from her mind as he stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. Sinking his face into her damp hair, he inhaled deeply. “Jesus, you smell good.” Before the pleasant tingles had a chance to travel all the way to her toes, he stepped away. “I need a shower.”

She actually hadn’t minded the scent of dust and sweat on him, but he was already peeling off his clothes. She didn’t mean to stare, but he wasn’t watching her, and what woman could look away from that fine ass? He stepped into the water, and she bit her lip, holding back a groan as she turned the dryer back on. Another five minutes would do it, and that’s probably all the time it would take him to shower.

She was reaching inside the voluminous sleeves of her robe, applying lotion to her arms when the water shut off. Two minutes later he stepped behind her again and took the bottle from her hands. “Let me,” he said. His voice was low and rumbly, stirring the fine hairs on her neck to attention. He poured a dab on his hand and rubbed his palms together, then reached inside the collar of her robe and began smoothing the silky cream over her shoulders.

She nearly melted against him. His touch was gentle but firm, a caress that turned into a massage. When he pushed the robe over her shoulders to expose more skin, she didn’t object, it felt incredible. She moaned and rolled her head as his fingers found places beneath her skin that the hot water hadn’t reached, removing tension she hadn’t known was there. It was calming and luxurious, and she lifted her eyelids lazily to watch in the mirror.

He wore nothing but a towel riding low on his waist. All she could see of his chest was wide, beautifully sculpted shoulders that promised to narrow to the lean hips she’d already seen from behind. His biceps flexed and rippled as he ministered to her tired muscles. Her gaze drifted lower, and she regretted that his thighs were hidden beneath the towel. A towel that could be removed with one flick of her finger. A whole new brand of tension poured through her.

His fingers stopped. She raised her eyes to find him watching her in the mirror. Slowly, he trailed his hands down her arms to her waist, drawing her back against him. With only her robe and his towel between them it wasn’t difficult to feel his erection pressing against her lower back.

He grasped the ties of her belt as he dipped his head next to her ear. “I believe I’d like to take you up on that offer you made in Chicago.” She didn’t have to ask which offer. Clearly, he was referring to her brief loss of sanity when she’d offered to fuck his brains out. Except now it didn’t sound insane, it sounded inspired.

His hands worked the tie until it fell open. The robe parted slightly but not enough to reveal anything. He raised his hands and helped himself, slipping it farther down her shoulders until her breasts were exposed. He cupped a hand beneath each one, stroking gently and flicking her nipple as it turned to a hard bud beneath his touch.

She stared at their reflections, entranced. His touch was confident, unhesitating, and he didn’t pause to ask permission in the tender, considerate manner Gene had used. According to Dr. Epstein this was the sort of approach that should have her shrinking away in fear, her hormones shutting down fast enough to frost his testicles. But happily, her body wasn’t in agreement with her therapist. Desire rushed between her thighs, dampening her curls.

She saw her cheeks flush with excitement before she let her head loll back. Her breasts swelled in his hands and wet heat zapped her pelvis. Apparently she could cross one worry off her list—she hadn’t brought along the lubrication that had always been a necessary aid with Gene and the two men before him, but it looked like she wouldn’t need it. Her body was doing just fine on its own.

She’d barely processed that when he turned her in his arms. Running his hands into her hair, he lifted it then let it fall, sliding it through his fingers as he brushed kisses over her cheek. “You drive me crazy,” he murmured.

She could say the same. She slid her hands around his back, pressing into what felt like a solid wall of muscle. Her breasts brushed his chest, tickled by a sprinkling of dark hair. She couldn’t help but make comparisons with Gene—Donovan was slimmer and yet more muscular, hard where Gene had been soft. Decisive where Gene had been hesitant. And scruffy with what was now at least four-day’s growth of beard, where Gene’s cheeks had been smooth and soft. Gene had even shaved before the few times they’d had sex out of consideration for her delicate skin, so as to not leave whisker burn. She’d thought that had been nice. Now she found herself eager to have Donovan’s rough cheeks rub against her, even if it irritated her skin. She was up for a good, hard dose of testosterone.