Big Daddy Wants Me

16: Waverly.

“Waverly.” Kyle looks stricken, lunging for the shower cubicle. When he yanks it open, warm droplets start flecking his new set of dry clothes, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s staring at me, scanning every inch of me with worried eyes, trying to figure out why I’m slumped against the shower wall and limp with despair. “What happened?”

“I’m not hurt,” I mumble, but Kyle’s not listening. He yanks his t-shirt over his head and steps into the cubicle, jeans and all.

Strong hands stroke down my shoulders, my arms, my waist, so much colder than the shower as they pat me down for some invisible injury. The shock of those icy fingers wake me up again, make me stand straight against the tiles, because shoot, Kyle hasn’t warmed up at all. Even with dry clothes on and the log burner out there, his hands are cold enough to steal my breath.

And—enough.

Enough of this.

Enough trying to stay mad. Enough letting my exhaustion drag me down. Kyle is cold, damn it, and even if he just unknowingly broke my heart, I still want him safe and warm. Nothing else really matters.

Suddenly all business, I drag him fully under the shower, reaching up to angle the spray at his chest. A red flush spreads across his skin where the water makes contact, and then I’m fussing over Kyle and Kyle’s fussing over me, and all the while there’s barely room in this cubicle for all our limbs.

“You’re hurt,” Kyle’s saying, still working his way over my body, squeezing gently as he goes. The storm rattles the walls, but we’re safe inside this cocoon. “Tell me where you’re hurt.”

Meanwhile I’m yanking at his belt, determined to get his legs warm too. “Take these off. Who showers with their jeans on?”

“Waverly.”

“It’s like you want wet clothes.”

“Waverly.”

“God, this belt is stiff. Help me, will you? I’m a poor i***t tourist and I can’t work your rugged back-country clothes.”

Kyle sighs heavily, then undoes his belt with a creak of leather. A moment later, with his sodden jeans and boxers kicked beneath the sink, he steps back into the shower fully nude and cages me against the tiled wall. My hands automatically reach up to cling to his rock-solid forearms.

Not gonna look south.

Not when it would be so obvious.

But let’s just say that something down there is big enough to make my tummy flip. Thank god for peripheral vision.

“Listen to me,” Kyle says. He’s scowling, and this is his stern boss voice, the one he uses when drinkers at the bar get too rowdy. It sends another wave of goosebumps prickling over my skin. “I shouldn’t have said that, Waverly.” He ducks his head; forces me to meet his eye. “I didn’t mean that. I just—the thought of you out in a mountain storm makes me lose my damn mind. Okay?”

Steam is thick in this small bathroom, and it hits me belatedly that we’re naked. We’re both completely nude, our slippery bodies crowded together in this small shower, while the final dregs of anger swirl down the drain.

How many times have I daydreamed about this?

How many times have I hovered outside the bathroom door, hearing the spray drumming inside, and ordered myself to be brave, to knock, to call through the wooden door and ask if the bar boss wants company?

So many times—and now we’re both here, frozen and electrified by the storm, our bodies warming up steadily beneath the hot spray. So, so alive. And maybe Kyle doesn’t love me the way I love him, maybe he wants me to move along on my travels eventually, but there’s one part of him that can’t lie. One part that says he does want me, physically at least, and it’s bobbing between us in the steam-clogged air.

I reach for him slowly. Give him time to move back or say no.

“Mari,” Kyle chokes out as my fingers wrap around his c**k. His hips twitch forward, thrusting into my grip, and he’s thick and long, a vein running up the side of his shaft. The skin is surprisingly soft, sliding easily around the rigid flesh beneath.

Never touched a man like this before. Never run into a storm to rescue someone either, or got my heart broken. This is a big day of firsts.

“f**k,” Kyle mutters, crowding me closer to the wall. His hands ball into fists against the tiles, and he’s still pinning me, caging me, that scowl etched on his handsome forehead. “f**k. We should—we should talk about this.”

But what’s there to say? We’re both alive, both safe, both warming up under the hot shower spray. And my rational brain may still be freaking out, but my animal body is good to go, a heavy pulse thudding between my thighs.

“I don’t expect this,” Kyle says, his voice thick with the effort of holding back. “Only do this if you want it too, Waverly. Wait, are you sure you’re not hurt?”

I’m definitely not injured, at least not in the way he thinks. And how could I not want it? Kyle is so strong, so rugged, older and stern and handsome and sweet and god, I’ve craved this for so long.

Maybe I’ll be moving on soon. Maybe this will be my only chance.

“I’m fine,” I say, sliding down the tiled wall to drop to my knees. Kyle inhales sharply as I go, but he doesn’t stop me. “I do want this, I promise.”

And we both hurt each other’s feelings tonight and made each other mad, but when I lean forward to kiss his c**k, I do it with nothing but eagerness and warmth. There’s a bead of fluid at the tip, and it tastes salty when I lap it away. As thunder rumbles across the mountains and lightning strobes the night sky, I take Kyle’s shaft in both hands and throw myself into making him feel good.

“Christ,” Kyle mutters, burying his hands in my wet hair. The pads of his thumbs rub at the base of my skull, smoothing away some of the tension there as I lick and kiss my way along his length. The worst of my stress headache seeps away, and I lose myself in sensation. “That’s it, sweetheart. Just like that. s**t, you feel good.”

So does he. You know, I always figured a blow job was something you do for someone you love, because you want to make them feel good—not something that you get a direct reward from. But here I am, squirming and wishing for his touch, so worked up from this already that I’m panting for air.

This is the best. If Kyle were mine, I’d do this every day.

When I suck his shaft past my lips, Kyle’s groan rolls through the bathroom like thunder. When I bob and suck and hollow my cheeks, he grunts and grips my hair tighter, tight enough that my scalp prickles and my pulse throbs between my thighs.

Cold? What cold? I’m so molten, my body doesn’t even remember the storm, while hot water courses down my shoulders and back and swirls around my knees before draining away.

“Good girl.” Kyle’s low praise makes me shiver from head to toe; makes me suck him deeper and try to please him with all my might. My slurping noises would be embarrassing, except I can feel in every shudder and twitch just how much this turns him on. “God, your mouth, Mari. Your perfect mouth.”

Before he comes, Kyle’s c**k swells even bigger against my tongue, and he tugs gently on my hair, muttering a warning. Drawing a deep breath through my nose, I ignore him and keep going, pumping my hands as I suck and lick and moan.

I want it. Want it all.

His come spurts against my tongue, salty and warm. Eyes fixed on the bar boss standing over me, I swallow down every drop, even though it goes on and on—then rock back on my heels and show him my tongue.

Kyle barks out a shocked laugh, shaking his head.

I wink, and my voice is raspy. “Something to remember me by.”