by Camden Leigh
“Scrub.”
I scrub so furiously, I’m down to my last layer of skin. “It isn’t coming off.”
“Turn.”
He rubs the soap over my back, around my shoulders, through my hair.
“You’ll have to scrub harder,” I say over my shoulder, panic changing my words into a demand.
He wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me against him as he presses the soap into my skin. “Periwinkle is a good color on you.”
“I look hideous.”
“Clothes will cover it up.”
“And my hair?”
“I like it.” He releases me and slips the soap back into its spot.
I turn around, naked and cold, teeth chattering, to find him searching my eyes. Water drips over the linear clefts marking his abs, following a barbed vine south. His jeans, soaked through, suction to his curves, especially the bulge locked behind his zipper.
His eyes peruse my body.
I straighten as I do when I’m working an outfit at a club. Realizing what I’d done a second too late, I reach past him and turn the water lever. “I suppose, at this point, it won’t hurt to add heat.” Crap. He’ll misread that.
His eyes darken.
Yup. Totally misread.
His hand rings my wrist, stopping me from turning away and making me flinch. But the oddest thing happens. The flinch fades and calm follows. I don’t want to hear anything else personal, nothing to make me feel more than I already do. Yet at the same time, I want to hear everything. I want to be . . . personal.
A hungry desire fills the crystals in his eyes with a dark yearning. He glances at his grip on my arm then his hand pressing against my breast. He leans forward and pauses, eyes checking mine for guidance.
God, those lips. That delicious curve leading to his dimple.
He leans in, lips parted.
This is what I want. He is what I want.
Chapter 15
Cassidy
Instead of closing my eyes like I always do, I leave them open to watch his lazily close. His lips part to meet mine. Though he moves slowly and precisely, there’s an undeniable urgency to pull him to me, get his lips on mine a little bit faster. But the anticipation might be what I’ve been missing.
The other night, we hurried through sex and pretty much nixed the foreplay. Partially my fault because if I’d slowed to enjoy it I would’ve thrown him out the second his shorts hit the floor. Watching him take his time with something as simple as a kiss rekindles the warm and fuzzy feels I’ve neglected since Preston. I’m glad we had quick-and-done sex last night, because this proves it could be so much better, and last night was pretty damn good.
Last night he was just warming my engine. This kiss, if it ever happens, and God I want it to, already has my engine awful close to overheating.
I push my hands over his warm pecs. Water drizzles down his shoulders and between my fingers. I lean into the kiss. “You’re torturing me.”
“On purpose.”
I comb my fingers into his wet hair and pull him to me. The heat of the water, the steam around us and the zing of his lips against mine makes my knees tremble. He wraps his arms around me and pushes me against the wall of the shower. He’s more brazen then last night, like he has something to prove. But he doesn’t. It’s me who has to prove to him I won’t push him away again.
I press my hands against him, making him pull away to check in with me. “I’m sure this time.”
His sideways smile kills me, and I melt a little more against the cool wall. He leans in and rests his head against mine. “I promise you won’t regret letting me in.”
Water streams down his back, fondling him the way I want to fondle him. I hook my fingers in his belt loops and jerk him closer. “I know. Because you already are.”
His hand slaps the tile wall to my left. He comes down with such ferocity, that my lips will feel bruised tomorrow. I pull at his belt, untuck his shirt, yank down his shorts. I can’t get to him fast enough.
His hands slip around me. His nails scrape along my spine, causing me to arch into him. His searing lips toy with my nipple, rendering me useless in the ripping-his-clothes-off department. He reaches down, knocking my hands away to do it himself, and I’m oh so grateful because his lips on me are heaven. Until I look down and see the blue of my skin.
I gasp and he rises quickly.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m. . .so not sexy right now.” I cover my marbled breasts.
“You are the sexiest thing Covington indigo has ever dyed. Believe me, the honor is all mine.” He pulls me to his hungry mouth and seeing him devour me makes my thighs clench in desperation.
“I don’t have a condom,” I say as he kicks off his shorts and boxers.
“I just happen to be prepared. Never know when a woman’s going to jump me in the shower.”
I spin to put my back to the water jets. He’s gorgeous. Head to toe divine. “Oh, God.” My heart does a little clapping-happy dance and the extra heat generated from seeing his naked body has me fanning my face and my chest.
“When you blush, your entire face turns as red as your hair. I love it.” He drags his finger down my cleavage then draws a circle around my pert nipple. “I love making you blush.”
“I love when you make me blush.” What has come over me? I bite my lip and he pulls it from my teeth with his thumb.
“Are you sure about this?” His hand trails down between my legs and strokes my doubly-wet lips. His fingers enter, gliding easily.
“Most definitely,” I squeak.
I can barely hold on to my control. I grip the small towel bar fashioned to the shower wall to keep from dropping to my knees and forming into a useless puddle. I’d rather throw myself down, drag him on top of me, wrap my legs around his waist, and have him fill me so fully, he drives me to the edge in a matter of seconds. That’s all it would take, because if he doesn’t stop massaging me, I’m going to come before the going gets great.
Instead of me dropping to my knees like I have mind to do, he lowers to one knee, clutches my ass in his strong hands and pulls me closer. He gestures for me to prop a foot on his raised knee. I wince at how exposed I am but he doesn’t seem to mind the view. Still, I’m blue all over and he’s on his knee.
He pushes my knee wider and Holy Lord, his tongue. The heat, mixed with the water cascading over my nipples, makes me cry out. He brings me close to orgasm, and I want it so desperately, but wanting him inside me, deep and yearning for more, makes me push him away. I cover my exposed areas, not able to take another lick, kiss, or suck because it will push me too far.
“I want you,” I say. “All of you.”
He rises and spins me to face the shower wall. He reaches down, sifts through his pockets and plucks out his wallet, and then a condom. The rip of the wrapper excites me and I lean back, searching for him. He grabs my hips and walks me backward. “Lean into the wall. Use your hands for support.”
“Support? God, I’m worthless. You have me so . . .”
His fingers explore down my crease, lower and lower, until they find my warm, wet entrance. He rubs my clit a few times and then without warning, dips his cock into me so slowly, I let out the longest, most needy moan that crescendos when he fully buries.
His hands stay on my hips, half holding me up, half driving me onto him. I lean my head back and the water splashes over my face and down my back. So many sensations strike simultaneously. My insides begin to quiver.
He growls, feeling the change, and speeds his pace. I slap the wall, wishing to dig my fingers into the tile. One of his hands flattens on my stomach, allowing his finger to inch closer to my clit. God, no. I can’t take more stimulation; I’ll explode.
I gasp, sucking in several consecutive small breaths. His finger meets my clit and my gasps turn to yelps of pleasure and desire and need for more. God, more. Yes.
His cock plunges deep. We ride the wave together. Me clawing the wall, him gripping me. I
fall to pieces and collapse my head against the wall. My hands slip as he pulses deep within me. I sigh, exhausted and content just staying propped like this forever so I can enjoy the aftereffects of our satiated desires.
His hand slips from my hip.
I try to grab the wall, afraid I’ll slip because my legs are still trembling. “Don’t let me go.”
His hand loops around me. He helps me upright and turns me toward him.
I go willingly. I don’t think I could ever tire from having him under my hands, beneath my cheek, or against my chest. I don’t think I could ever tire of him.
“Never,” he says. “You don’t let go either.”
Never. Ever.
Chapter 16
Quinn
“Where have you two be—” Kat fumbles the glass she’s holding as we enter the house. Water splashes on her clothes and trickles down the steps. “What did you do to her?”
“I didn’t do anything. That’s all Cassie.” I squeeze her shoulder. “Looks fantastic, doesn’t she?”
“She’s blue.” Kat runs down the steps and grabs her hair. “And purple.”
“Indigo issues.” I set Ellie’s fabric aside then pull Cassie against me, trying to hide her from inspection, since all I could find for her to wear was one of Dad’s flannel shirts. “I told her she fits in perfectly with Ellie’s theme.” I kiss the top of her head.
Kat double glances at me, then grabs Cassie’s hand and pulls her toward the steps. “If she wants to be the cake topper. Come on. I need to bleach you and apparently you have some explaining to do.”
“Kat, careful.” I clench my teeth. She better deal with the dye and that’s it.
She smirks, waggles her eyebrows, and continues up the stairs. “Come on Cookie Monster, you’ll be just peachy when I’m done with you.”
“Peach would be better than blue,” Cassie mumbles as they head toward Kat’s room.
I sure hope Kat can help her. Nothing I said worked, not even when I told her most of the blue washed out. Most wasn’t good enough. At least this gives me time to run out to my car.
Kat had given me a ride to pick it up, since the truck was impractical in the heat and chose when it wanted to participate at one hundred percent. I needed my trustworthy escape vehicle for when Mom applied pressure on old wounds. I slide my hand over the smooth paint job. The checks Mom deposited in my account for tuition have been kind, affording me the lifestyle I’d been used to growing up. But those are sure to stop flowing now that I’ve shown my face. Blowing the money on pointless crap probably wasn’t the best idea. Should’ve invested it. For when someone like Cassie rolled into my life. Say we work out . . . what do I have to offer? I’ve got nothing but a camera, a nomadic gypsy lifestyle, and a car to my name. Nothing impressive to a girl like Cassidy. One day at a time, man. One. Day.
I grab the bag from the front seat, set it on the hood, and stare at it. Cassie has only nubs for pencils and draws on the back of junk mail flyers and envelopes, only using real paper sparingly or for job-related stuff. She has no outlet, which may be why she’s so closed off. If I didn’t have my darkroom, I’d go fucking nuts around here. Cassie going nuts would be a step in the wrong direction. Unless she’s going nuts for me. Wouldn’t that be something.
I spent way too long in the art store and looked like a fucking idiot picking out shit I knew nothing about. In the end, I’d bought her three sketch pads, charcoal pencils, sketch pencils, and a wash set the cashier suggested. I have no idea what she uses, but that’s hardly the issue. Getting her to accept them will be the challenge.
I cut the plastic wrap off the sketch pads and drop them on the ground, moving them around with my foot to mar up their perfect covers. I do the same with the pencils, denting the metal cases, sharpening the pencils to different lengths and rubbing the tips until they barely draw. I rip out several pages from each pad and dog-ear the covers. “This is fucking crazy. Why am I doing this?” I shake my head. She’d better take them. I need her to like them. I want to give her things, feel appreciated instead of loathed.
I grab the stuff and head toward the kitchen, avoiding the front door. I knock on her bedroom door, and not hearing anything, slowly push it open. Wanting to get out before I’m caught, I toss the stuff on the bed and scrawl a note on one of the sheets, ripping it from the pad and placing it on top. If she doesn’t want them, I’ll deal, at least this way she doesn’t have to tell me to my face.
I move through the house quietly and take the back way into the dining room. After setting up a speaker system and downloading some songs to my phone, I get Cassie’s phone number from Ellie, telling her it’s a tux questions.
One, two, three. One, two, three is all you need to know to waltz. Meet me in the dining room.
I glance around the empty room, readying for the challenge that is Cassie, and think about adding flowers or mood lighting. Nah. Too pushy. Too romancy. She doesn’t need a shove in the wrong direction, that’s for sure.
“Am I interrupting? I can come back.”
I drop the remote to the stereo system into my pocket and smile in admiration. Cassie’s beautiful. Scrubbed-raw arms and all. She’s pulled her hair back, exposing the sexy, long, kissable slope to her freckled shoulders. Bitable earlobes. Warm, ruby lips. I shake my hands in my pockets. Down boy.
“No, just enjoying the view.” I take her in for a heartbeat longer then gesture for her to join me. “Come, we’ll start.”
I jump into the lesson, positioning her like a mannequin. Hand location. Foot placement. Focal points. For the next couple of hours, she’s all mine. “And the beat goes, one—”
“I know the beat.” She smiles.
“You know the waltz?” I thought she said she couldn’t do these dances?
“No, but your text gave me the idea to look up videos.” Her gaze dances away from mine and lingers over my shoulder. She tucks her chin, dropping her face from view. “The cadence. The pause. The affect. Waltzing numbers.”
I suck my lip and release it with a pop. She is a genius. “Let’s try it out.”
The music blares from the speakers. I adjust the volume and try not to appear completely hormonal over touching her. I keep my gaze away from hers and my touch light, though I want to pull her hard against me and breathe her in until the music stops, the sun sinks, and I erase all her hesitations.
“Have you attended a ball before?” I ask.
“Fund-raisers and benefits, but nothing where dancing is the event.”
I nod. “You’ll be asked to dance. You accept with a curtsy.” Now how do I show that? I shake out my arm then cross one leg behind the other and lower like a damn crooked-ass flamingo.
“Well that explains why guys bow.” She dips and gets it her first try.
“And why beautiful girls curtsy.” I throw her a smug grin.
I bow, take her right hand in my left and bounce her other arm to rest on mine. “Light and airy,” I remind with a nudge. “Straight spine. Slight head tilt, and go. One, two, three.”
I count several measures but her feet don’t follow mine and she trips. “I’ll catch you; don’t worry about falling.”
Twenty minutes later, I take a break and sit on the floor. She attempts to box step in a huge circle around me sans music. The click, click, click of her heels reminds me of my own dance lessons years ago with Annabeth. That’s how we met. Paired by the teacher. We were perfect on the dance floor. Then we were perfect for each other. Our parents became friends and our choices no longer mattered. We became perfect high school sweethearts. Perfect prom court winners. Perfect. Perfect. Goddamn perfect. But it never felt real. Cassidy feels real. Every curve, every sigh, every smile—they intensify my wish to be with her. Annabeth just makes me cringe.
Cassie kicks off her shoes, drawing my attention to her painted toes. She lowers and rests one hand on each of my knees. “Spill.”
“What?” I glance around the room. “Right, waltz.”
“No.” Her
smile goes crooked making her freckles stretch across her cheeks.
A curl falls from her clip. I tuck the blue-tinged strands behind her ear and trace the crease hiding a small stud. A tiny diamond.
She turns away from my touch, causing my fingers to draw down her neck. Her posture softens, curving her toward me. The tiny shiver, the slight shrug . . ..they bring her closer. All I want is to be the one who makes her uncertainties evaporate.
I rise to my feet, leaving her kneeling on the ground. It would’ve been easier to lean in and kiss her and remind her that she alone, turns my days around. I’d kiss her so deep that I’d find her secrets. And she’d learn mine.
I offer my hand and she gives me a shy smile before taking it. I fold her into my arms, maybe a little closer than the waltz should be danced, but I just can’t stand the distance.
The door opens and we both pause to see who’s joining us. Cassie’s fingers dig into my skin. She pushes me away but I tug her closer and win our tug of war.
“I thought I heard music. Practicing?” Annabeth strolls in and drops her purse by the door. She kicks off her flip-flops and walks up to us. “Quinny is a pro because he had a great partner. Here, let me show you real ballroom dancing.”
“We’re doing just fine.” I reluctantly release Cassie who steps back and folds her arms against her chest.
Her cheeks rage red and she squeezes her lips so tightly they blanch.
“Then for old time’s sake. Start the song over, Quinny; let’s show her the dance we did at my cotillion.”
“At Ellie’s cotillion,” I correct her.
“At our cotillion.” She grips my hand and stares pointedly down her nose, waiting for me to concede.
“I don’t remember it.” I step closer to Cassie.
“Fine, we’ll do the layman’s waltz.” Annabeth sighs and grabs my hand. She positions herself and gives me no chance to escape before reaching into my pocket, grabs the remote and starts the song over.
“Hands to yourself, Annabeth,” I warn.
“Hands on me, Quinny.”
Annabeth’s a striking girl, with the same inquisitive glare and sneaky demeanor she had in high school. She got away with everything. And it seems, she still does.
