The Lover's Children novel Chapter 65

CHARLOTTE

His mouth quirks. “Do we both smell of horse?”

“’Fraid we do, Master.”

His smile widens, and he slides a hand around my shoulder. “Let’s have a shower, then we can enjoy each other properly. C’mon, off with your clothes.” He undresses with brisk efficiency. I follow his lead, tagging behind him.

In fact, we have more of a wet area than a shower room, with plenty of room for two or more…

As we stand together, naked, my thoughts wander…

… and I believe my Master is following a similar path. “We’ve never used this to its full potential, have we.” His smile is wicked now. “Have you and Michael ever…?”

“Um… No… We haven’t and now I think about it, I’m not too sure why.”

He sniffs, seeming to consider that. “It’s not as though we don’t have plenty of options.” He fiddles with the controls. “Not too hot,” he mutters. “Don’t want you overheating in your condition.” He flicks the power switch and I gasp as water jets down, spiking at my skin, pummeling the muscles underneath. “Aaahhh…”

“I’ll second that.” He stretches, facing up into the showerhead, letting the stream play over his face, swiping the flow back through his hair. “That’s better.”

“Master, shall I do your back?” For answer, he passes me a loofah and turns away from me.

Smearing spicy-sweet gel between my palms, I work it up over his shoulders. Lather streams down, channelling between his shoulder blades to river down his spine. Slippery under my hands, I rub at smooth tight skin, down to his ribs, his waist…

“Harder,” he says…

… I scrub with the loofah…

“No, with your hands. Massage me. Over my shoulders.”

“Like this, Master?” I dig in with my thumbs, following the line of muscle and bone.

“That’s it, but harder.”

I repeat my massage, with more power, from the heel of my hand, then as he leans forward, arms outstretched to prop his hands flat to the tiles, fisting my hands, I knead with my knuckles.

He lets out air. “God, that’s good…” Then, whirling, he rounds at me. “I’ll ask you to do that again, later, but for now…” He picks among a medley of bottles, pots and tubes. “Which shampoo do you prefer?”

“That one, the apple.”

He flips the cap, sniffs. “Yes, so do I. Here…” Positioning me directly under the showerhead, he works long fingers through my hair, finger-combing it under the spray until steaming water sluices through long red tails before spiralling down the waste.

The bottle squeaks as he squeezes green-marbled shampoo into his hand. Rubbing his palms together, the scent of apple, fresh and zesty, billows with the steam. And again as he works it into my scalp. “Such beautiful hair,” he murmurs. “Always a glory on any woman. Especially so on you.”

Unhooking the showerhead, he rinses though, washing away suds to froth down between my breasts, over my belly and loins. “Did you know,” he comments, conversationally, “that the word shampoo is originally Indian? And it was a form of massage.” He works into my scalp, kneading and pushing, fingerpads working at my skull, nails nipping in.

It’s electrifying. Arousal frolics over my skin, fizzes through my core. My gasps set blue-grey steam swirling, curling away to condense against the tiles, droplets trickling down in thin glistening lines, matching the trickle from between my legs.

His face close to mine. “That good?”

“Master, you have the hands of a surgeon.”

Even under the warm water blasting over me, my nipples crinkle and harden. My Master slips one hand down, palming over a breast, cupping and caressing. He thumbs at the stiffening tip, sending a frisson skittering over my skin, jangling into my pussy. His voice husky, almost grating, “That’s what I was looking for.”

The hand quests south, snakes around my waist, pulling me in tight against the hardness pressing at my thigh.

Abruptly, he grips me, spins me, pushes me back against the tiled wall. “Up you come.” Paired hands under my ass, he heaves, pressing forward. I open and swing, hooking my legs around his waist, locking my arms around his neck.

His mouth meets mine: demanding, open, ardent. His body enters mine: powerful, driving, forceful. As we rock together, releasing a hand from my neck-lock, I try to steady us with a palm flat against the corner wall.

Water sprays and gushes, flowing over my face, forcing my eyes closed. My Master hammers into me, and with each stroke, and my gulping response, water seeps between our locked mouths.

He breaks away, laughing. “One of those ideas that sounds better than it works. Come on. We have a perfectly good bed next door. Besides…” He nibbles at an earlobe… “I’m of a mood to make love with you rather than fuck you.”

A rough towelling down, then naked, still steaming, he eye-points me through to the bedroom.

Already warm and fluid inside, my skin soft and damp, my hair still wet, I lie, my head on the pillow. Stretching out, I arch my spine to flatten my stomach, then lifting my hips, display myself to my Master.