His hands moved slowly. Soap first, working a lather across my shoulders, down my arms. He washed me like I was something breakable, his palms sliding over my breasts, my stomach, and the insides of my thighs. I was still sensitive, and I flinched when his fingers found my p***y. He paused, his eyes meeting mine, then continued, gently washing the evidence of us away. It wasn't erotic, but my damned p***y thought otherwise. If he had kept it up, I would have climaxed, just from getting washed down there.
“Turn around.” His voice was quiet, the command soft.
I obeyed, and his hands found my back, working soap into my skin, tracing the curve of my spine. He kneaded my shoulders, and I let my head drop forward, letting the water beat against my neck. His hands slid lower, over my ass, down
