Joy Ride by Desiree Holt (reading a book TXT) 📕

with a fierce need. No woman had ever gotten to him the way this one did.

He lifted his head only when he needed to drag air into his oxygen-starved lungs and stared into her eyes. They were more blue than green, the shifting hazel a reflection of her mood. Blue for passion—his Music Lady had a passionate soul. He sensed a zest for life welling within her, and he wanted to tap into it if he could breach that final barrier she kept so firmly in place.

Reaching out with one hand, he grabbed the bottle of plain shower gel on the built-in shelf, squirted some into his palm, and worked it into a rich lather. Still holding her gaze, he began to smooth it into her skin, swirling the foam in a circular pattern. Her wonderful slender neck first. A stop at the hollow of her throat where her pulse beat rapidly. The line of her collarbone. Each arm, from shoulder to wrist then gently rubbing every finger.

He massaged each area slowly, feeling her muscles relax incrementally as the motion of his hands soothed her.

More gel, more lather.

He drew circles along the swell of her breasts and underneath the plump mounds. Around and around, just the lightest touch. She trembled as his hands went up the sides of her breasts to those puckered rosy nipples, pinching them lightly, rasping them with his soapy thumbs. Loving the pebbled texture of them.

And all the while she stood there, hands at her sides, her eyes never leaving his. So much emotion, he thought, he could drown in them.

Jesus, could I keep this up without losing it?

More gel, again, and more lather.

He knelt in front of her and began with her feet, applying the suds even to her toes, then her ankles and up the length of each slender leg. But when he got to her pussy he stopped, saving it for last.

“Turn around,” he told her, barely recognizing his own voice, and urged her with his hands.

He trailed his palms over the slope of her shoulders, the graceful line of her spine, touching each indentation until he reached the swell of her ass. He curved his hand over each cheek in turn, caressing it, cupping it. Tentatively, he drew one lather-covered finger down the length of the hot crevice, pausing only briefly to circle the tight puckered ring before moving on.

She tensed but didn’t pull away from him and little whimpers of pleasure burst from her mouth. Anal sex, to Marc, was the most personal joining of two people. The fact Music Lady reacted the way she did was a sign she trusted him with her body.

But not her name?

He brushed the thought away as quickly as it came. When the time was right she’d tell him. And he’d work hard to get there.

His hand drifted away from her ass to her waist.

Later. That’s for another time.

She was like a gentle flower just beginning to blossom. And he wanted her to be his blossom. His flower. To be a part of his life almost more than he craved his music. He was tired of the lonely nights, of the hours when he had no one to share his success or soften his failures. Even as little as he knew about her, there was something growing so tenuously between them. He was going to do whatever it took to nurture it. Just like in the songs he wrote when he hit the perfect combination of notes, when the magic was plucked out of the air with no rhyme or reason. His heart told him this woman could be the one for him.

Gently he turned her to face him again, brushing his mouth over hers and skating his tongue over her lips.

“God, you’re so special,” he murmured.

“Really?” Her lips moved against his as she leaned into him. “Special? You think so?”

“Oh, yeah. Trust me on that.” He continued to massage her shoulders with his soapy hands until she was loose and pliable beneath his touch. “Relax. I promised you’d enjoy this. Wasn’t I right?”

“Yes. You did. And you are.” Her voice was musical. Sensual. Her fingers resting on his hips sent sparks through him. As if he even needed them.

“And it’s going to get even better.”

He skimmed the swell of her breasts before dropping to his knees in front of her. Taking her hands, he placed them flat against the wall behind her and lifted one of her legs to rest on his shoulder. It brought her pussy directly to him at eye level, and the sight made his blood pump and his pulse beat harder. It was so pink and soft and covered with silky dark blonde curls. Inhaling her fragrance, he touched her clit with one soapy finger, then outlined the wet, glistening, plump lips.

Emma pressed herself back against the wall, and a low moan escaped from her mouth.

Marc traced a line along her folds, swirled soapy lather into her nest of curls, and brushed back and forth over her swollen nub before sliding first one and then two fingers inside her.

Oh, Jesus.

She was so slick and wet, and the inner walls of her cunt pulsed around his touch. He wanted to fuck her right then and there, in the shower, with the warm water sluicing down over them, her hair wet and slicked back. But he couldn’t do her justice here. And his Music Lady wasn’t yet to where he could take her anywhere—in the shower, against the wall, on the dining room table. But soon. When she trusted him completely. When she realized it was a hell of a lot more than just sex.

She was moaning and whimpering, and he had to force himself to pull out of her tight grasp and stand up.

“My turn,” he said in a low voice.

Her eyes opened wide. “Yours?”

“Uh huh. Showering together is a two way street, babe. Hold out your hands.”

He poured gel into her palms and watched her work it into a rich