And that was when she lost the battle.
Her knees gave out, and she slid down to the floor of the shower. Trembling. Shaking all over, gasping for breath.
She lifted up to watch me splash water on my face, and rub my mouth clean.
“Holy shit,” she breathed.
Watching her lose control had been almost as arousing as anything she could do to me, and I was achingly hard for her again.
She saw this. Moved on all fours across the shower floor, toward me. I clambered to my feet and she followed me. Stood in front of me, breasts brushing my chest. Her breathing came in ragged pants, her chest lifting with each one. She was wild, aroused beyond all control. Her hands shot out, clawed, and hooked into my pecs, shoved me up against the wall. Fingers trailed down my cheeks, clutched my jaw. Eyes on mine, hers alight with aroused ferocity. Panting. Holding still, in the way a lioness freezes before she pounces.
And then she lunged at me. Lifted up, hooked one knee around my hip, heel on my opposite thigh, and sank down onto me. I growled wordlessly, feeling myself slide into deep wet soft perfection, felt her clamp around me, clenching spasmodically as she shook from the aftershocks of two potent back-to-back orgasms and quaking her way to a third as I drove up into her. I was beyond all control. All thought. I was alive with need, not for climax now, not for release, but for her. For intimacy.
For this.
She lifted up on her toes and I cupped her ass and lifted, and we set her down together, onto me. Lifted in synch. She slammed her mouth onto mine and stole my tongue, sucked it into her mouth, and drove her hips against mine. I gasped, feeling her slick wet heaven sliding around me, squeezing me, and I knew nothing but Lexie, but this, but us.
Pushing, thrusting.
Needing more.
I palmed her ass in my hands and lifted her all the way off the floor, stepped forward to press her back to the opposite wall, and she clung to my neck and writhed on me and her heels scrabbled desperately at my ass and she was a wild thing, a feral cat, all claws and teeth, nipping my neck and earlobes and shoulder, clawing at my back.
“Myles,” she breathed, those two syllables a broken, ragged plea.
I was so close. Drowning in her.
I had one brain cell operating enough to know what she meant with that single desperate plea of my name.
I set her down and wrenched control over myself—found it from somewhere within. Slid out of her. Stepped away. Shaking.
She whimpered, this time from loss, from confusion, from I wasn’t sure what.
I was shaking all over, every muscle tensed hard. I turned away from her. Head ducked, fists clenched hard.
Felt her behind me, palms sliding over my belly. “Myles, let me—”
I gripped her wrists in both hands. Shook my head. “No.”
She leaned against me, breasts squishing flat against my back. “I’ll suck you off again.”
I didn’t let go. “No. Not this time.”
“Why?”
“Because I…” I ached, hurt, physically as well as emotionally. “I want something you can’t give, Lex. It’s not about the act. It’s about what it means. I’m not going to take it. It’s not going to happen on accident, in the heat of the moment.” I twisted, keeping a grip on both of her wrists. “You’re either going to want what I want, or you’re not. We can do plenty of other things, Lex. Just not that.”
“You’re not being fair,” she whispered, and I heard the hurt and confusion and anger. “You don’t know, you don’t understand.”
“I know that.” I let go of her hands, cupped her face in both hands as the water ran cool. “And I’m still not asking. But I have to hold some part of myself in reserve, Lex, or I won’t survive this. I’m offering you everything I am without reserve. If you take that offer, you get all of me. If you can’t and won’t, then I have to keep something back.”
“It’s one thing, Myles. That one act of you coming inside me without a condom—I just…I can’t do that.”
“I know. And, like I said, it’s not about the act, Lex. It’s really not. You make me feel so fucking good, every time we’re together, no matter what we do. It’s not about coming inside you bare. I don’t want that to, like, mark you or some macho possessive shit, or because I’m obsessed with how it feels.”
“Then what is it about, Myles? Because I don’t fucking understand.”
“It’s about you holding something back. It’s about you not being willing to tell me why not. There’s nothing I won’t and haven’t told you. Nothing I won’t do for you, nothing I won’t give you if you ask for it. You’re not with me for my fame or my money, and I’m well aware of that. But if you asked me for fucking anything, I’d do it. Want a house? I’ll buy you a mansion in fuckin’ Monaco, or a penthouse in Paris. Say the word. Want a Ferrari? I’ll go pay cash for one right this fuckin’ second. You don’t want any of that shit, and I know it. That’s almost more frustrating, because there’s not a goddamn thing I can do, not a goddamn thing I can give you to earn the trust I want from you. Because the raw truth of it is, it’s not about me. I wish it was, because then I could fuckin’ do something. If I was an asshole and my behavior was shitty, I could fix that. If I was this or that or whatever, I could fix it. I could be better. Do better. Be a more generous lover. Buy you presents. Take you on vacations. I don’t fuckin’ know. But it’s not—fucking—about—me.” I swallowed hard, eyes burning. “And that sucks. Because
