Page 66 of Rise After Fall

“I thought you were tired,” I murmur as I dig my nails into his thighs and raise my hips.

The tip of him rubs against my sensitive flesh, and a gasp escapes my lips.

“Tired, not dead,” he says.

The words are a grunt as I reach between us and take him in my hand and begin to pump up and down his length. Then, I turn in his arms and plant my knees on the floor of the tub beside his hips, giving him full access.

He wraps my long, wet locks in his fist and pulls my lips to his.

When he releases my mouth, he grins at me. “You’re gonna have to do all the work.”

I graze my nails up his chest and grasp his shoulder. “Oh, I can do that.”

I lift my hips, and he guides himself to my entrance. I slowly sink down on him, moaning as he stretches and fills me.

I dig my fingers into his shoulders as I rotate my hips and ride him faster and deeper until his cock hits the exact spot I need.

I’m lost in my own pleasure when his hand comes between us. His fingers begin to massage my clit, and his powerful hips take over, thrusting up into me.

All I can do is hang on to him as the orgasm rockets through me and causes my body to convulse. He cries my name moments before I collapse on top of him, utterly spent.

We lie there, holding each other as the water gently laps at our skin.

Baths are the best.

Morris

We stayed in the bath until the water grew cold, and then I lifted her out and wrapped her in a soft, huge towel. I carried her into the guest room and deposited her in the middle of the king bed. I raided West’s kitchen and was able to round up some cheese and crackers, prosciutto, ham, and green grapes. I threw it all on a plate and grabbed a couple of sodas and returned to her.

Now, we are lying here—me on my back and her on her belly, propped on her forearms, with her feet swinging in the air—enjoying our snack and playing twenty questions.

“What’s your favorite meal?” I ask.

She thinks for a moment before answering.

“My favorite meal is a good sandwich,” she replies.

“A sandwich. Really?”

“Yeah. Don’t you like them?” she asks.

“Sure, but a favorite meal? That would have to be a good steak. A plate of my momma’s fried chicken. Or even a fresh trout fillet, right out of the river. Not a sandwich,” I note.

“So, your favorite meal is meat,” she teases.

“Meat-centered,” I clarify.

“I don’t know. A nice sliced turkey and Havarti cheese with crisp lettuce and bright tomatoes, slathered in mayo and mustard, on a toasted ciabatta; or roast beef and provolone with horseradish sauce on a hoagie roll; or even a classic grilled cheese, filled with ooey-gooey goodness and a bowl of warm tomato soup on the side. Mmm. It reminds me of childhood summer lunches.”

I pop a grape into my mouth. “I can get on board with that for lunch, but it has to include bacon,” I say.

“Mmm. Now, you’re speaking my language. BLTs are the best.”

I make a mental note to make her a BLT back at the cabanas.

“Where is your favorite place you’ve ever skied in the world?” I ask.

“Hey, I thought it was my turn to ask a question,” she says.