The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 38

Chapter 30-2

Clam

I raise my arms with effort, and he peels the fabric up and away, revealing the swell of my breasts in a lacy black bra, heavy and full, the n*****s tightening. He reaches behind me and in a single practiced motion, he unhooks my bra. It falls to the floor, and there I am, half-naked in front of him.

He kneels to ease down my jeans, his fingers hooking into the waistband and drawing them downward with deliberate care. He moves the fabric over my hips and thighs while his palms smooth along my legs to keep the motion gentle. He glances up at me from the floor.

“Zara? Can I take your underwear off?”

I nod, my throat too tight to speak. Gently, so carefully, he reaches out and slides the black scrap of lace down my legs. My p***y comes into view, the soft folds glistening faintly from the heat of the room, sensitive and exposed. His thumbs trace lightly along my hips, avoiding the worst of the purple marks, and his eyes fall on the massive surgical scar across my stomach.

“God, you’re fucking beautiful,” he says, voice low and rough. “Even like this, marked up and bruised, you’re perfect.”

Tears prickle the corners of my eyes, because I believe him. I know he’s telling me the truth, and it’s like a soothing balm spread all over my decimated, tortured ego.

Locke stands now and sheds his own clothes in unhurried movements. His cut and t-shirt are peeled away to expose the hard planes of his massive, tattooed chest, dusted with dark hair that trails down to abs that look like a goddamn fantasy man on a steamy book cover.

His back and arm muscles flex as he kicks free of his jeans and socks and underwear, and then his c**k springs free, thick and already half-hard, the veined length curving slightly upward with a bead of moisture at the tip. I can’t tear my eyes away from it, and heat pools low in my belly at his length and girth.

My p***y twitches at what it would feel like to be fucked by him, what it would feel like to be plugged by that huge c**k. He’d fill me completely, I know, and he’d feel like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.

Locke takes my hand, helps me step over the tub’s edge into the bubbly water. Considering the size of the apartment, the bathtub is surprisingly roomy, deep enough that the water reaches almost to my collarbones once he guides me carefully inside it. I sink into the warmth with a trembling breath, my body already hypersensitive from everything that came before – his voice, his hands, his kisses.

He slides in behind me a moment later. The water shifts around us with slow, intimate movement, and I swear I feel every inch of him before he even touches me. His legs bracket mine beneath the surface, broad and solid and inescapably masculine, and the heat of his chest against my back nearly draws a sound from me immediately.

I can feel him everywhere.

The strength of his thighs beneath the water. The steady rise and fall of his chest against my spine. One large hand settling calmly against my waist as though holding me there is the most natural thing in the world. His massive c**k pressed hard and long against the curve of my back.

My head tips back slightly against his shoulder before I can stop myself.

1/2

Chapter 30.

He cxhales softly. “Good girl. Relax now.”

Clam

The sweetness of the words melts through me instantly, and I close my eyes as his fingers slide into my hair, my curls tumbling free over his hands and the edge of the tub. The sensation is strangely intimate, more exposing somehow than nudity itself. No one has ever touched my hair like this before: carefully, patiently, as though it matters. As though I matter.

He reaches for the silver handheld shower attachment hanging beside the bath and tests the temperature briefly against his wrist before bringing it over my head. His fingers work shampoo and then conditioner slowly through my hair, massaging my scalp with deliberate, unhurried pressure that makes my entire body loosen inch by inch.

It’s something that I do almost every day, and it shouldn’t feel erotic… and yet it feels unbearably erotic. The combination of his size surrounding me and the gentleness of his hands becomes almost impossible to endure. I melt further back against him helplessly while he washes my hair.

Once he rinses the last traces of conditioner, he lathers a fragrant body gel between his palms, then he slides them slowly over my shoulders, washing me with devastating thoroughness. Every movement feels intimate enough to ruin me completely. His hands move down my arms, over my stomach, along the sensitive curve of my waist. Like he’s memorising me.

I can’t stop trembling… especially when his palms finally close gently around my breasts.

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