Читать книгу Unfaithful - Devon Scott - Страница 14

Olivia enters the clammy room. Steam wafts from the shower and is hovering just below the skylight like a cirrus cloud. The mirrors above the twin vanities are fogged; the glass stall is covered in perspiration. Yet, she can see her husband, his back turned to her, face to the wall, soap decorating his ass and thick legs. She is wearing a Japanese robe, a repeating pattern of blue cranes on white silk. Olivia considers crossing the three feet to the shower stall as is, but instead, she drops the robe where she stands by the vanity and goes to him on her toes, nude.

Olivia is one of those women who, as Miles is fond of saying, is far more beautiful unclothed than clothed. That does not take away from how smart she can look when she is dressed—but get her naked, and her true beauty shines like a flame.

Her body is thick—substance to her powerful, yet sculpted thighs, a slight bow to her legs, giving her a sensuous edge. She is equipped with an ass that any black woman would be proud of, large ripe breasts, and thick dark nipples that stand erect with the slightest breeze. Her sex is not shaved clean the way most men prefer. She doesn’t have time to keep it trimmed nor could she care less, so Olivia lets it grow—not run wild, but enough that Miles has to part her pubic hair with his fingers in order to find her sweet nectar center.

Olivia reaches the glass door, grasps the polished steel handle, and opens it silently. Miles senses her without turning around. Yet, before he can react, she is pressing against him—her cool body on his hot, soapy one; heavy breasts connecting with his back, her nipples making twin soap trails as she maneuvers into position. Hands wrap around his waist, face nuzzling against his neck as he leans back into her and sighs.

They are silent.

Words are not needed.

Olivia’s original plan was to wait for Miles to come to bed before continuing their conversation. But something didn’t seem right. The fact that he had seemingly snapped at her for no reason didn’t add up. It was reasonable for her to be curious about the conversation he’d had with Ryan earlier that evening, wasn’t it? She had thought for sure he would come home and want to replay the details for her—allowing her to consider every sentence and response.

But that hadn’t happened.

Miles had been drinking…that much was obvious.

So, she’d left him alone, giving him his space, until she couldn’t stand it any longer.

The not knowing.

The unknown.

Olivia knew, that like most nights when Miles went out without her, he’d return home ready for some action. Perhaps she could speed things along—get him in that vulnerable position where men would say and do anything their partners asked of them.

Olivia smirks as she readies her plans.

Her hands roam over his soapy skin, taking the loofah and body wash from him. Lathering it up, she proceeds to wash his entire body, beginning with his neck and shoulders, descending down his back to his waist, grabbing his ass in one hand, squeezing the flesh as she cleanses him, feeling his power and strength as her fingers and palm drift from one cheek to the other. Miles loves the spinning classes he takes several times a week at the gym several blocks from his office. Because of it, his ass, thighs and calves are well defined. Olivia spends some time on these parts before descending further. Miles stands there and allows her to take control, hands overhead and pressed against the sweating tile with his head thrown back. The rush of the spray is therapeutic. He sighs when she takes hold of his penis, her hands snaking around his waist, fingers gliding over dark skin, inching near until she feels him.

Miles is already erect.

Olivia smiles, rubbing the bulbous head with her palm, dropping the loofah so she can give him her full attention.

She begins to tug at him…a slow, deliberate motion that elicits a heartfelt moan. She kisses his neck and flicks her tongue around the fleshy part of his ear. She grinds her pelvis into him, letting him know she is turned on, as well. A moan escapes from her lips and she is cognizant of her own wetness that meanders down her thigh.

Miles turns.

His member brushes against her stomach.

Then his hands are on her ass, pulling her into him. He kisses her hard on the mouth, tongue darting between her teeth, and the beer taste is not undesirable. He is being aggressive, nibbling on her lower lip, hand rushing up and palming her breasts, tugging at the nipples before both hands dip back down and again find her ample behind.

Olivia’s response is pure rapture.

Miles pushes her against the back shower wall, cool tile on her skin as he palms both cheeks, spreading them apart. Instantly, she feels the rush of water on her skin, an avalanche of passion racing downward, a powerful spray on her neck to the small of her back, and downward still. Miles is sucking at her neck as he grinds against her. The rush of water is like a river; it finds her vulnerabilities and rides her like a wave.

Downward.

And when the water licks against her, Olivia finds heaven.

Fingers, his, find her core, spreading her wings, and as Olivia closes her eyes and soaks up the intensity of this wondrous feeling, a thought embraces her. I’m a butterfly, she thinks, with wings of honey.

Olivia smiles at the imagery.

Then, in an instant, that icon is gone—disappeared, replaced by something else entirely.

Something she must grasp and hold on to.

Just for a moment.

Ryan’s fingers had found her core, too. His digits spread her the way her husband is doing now, this delicious instant. And she finds she can’t separate the two—as she stands this very second in the shower—knees ready to falter, legs all rubbery and about to give out, the lovely rush of hot spray against her clit, the tremor of Miles’ fingers filling her insides, distinct from Ryan’s smooth, slow, and purposeful touch.

Olivia remembers that evening with precision-like clarity—the way her best friend felt at that exact moment when he entered her. It was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. Olivia wanted so badly to scream, but found she could not do so.

In an instant, she feels the tremor and gives in to its power. Before she can scream, Olivia is brought back to reality by Miles inside her, two bodies leaning against each other as the hot spray rains down, one leg hiked around his hip as he fills her in one flourishing stroke.

And that is fine, because Olivia is still sensing the aftershocks.

She grips her husband as he beats against her, hot breath on her neck, locs swinging to a silent syncopation, a slow groove that loses its rhythm.

Miles moves against her with abandonment, eyes closed, head thrown back, palms pressed on either side of her, fingers splayed and flat against the tile.

Holding on…

Holding back…

Then, no longer giving a damn, he grunts, groans, and comes.

It takes a moment for them to collect themselves.

Such is the way after really good sex.

Later, they towel off in silence.

Olivia suddenly longs for the warmth of her bed, and her husband’s arms that shield her and hold her safe from harm’s way.

She is hoping tonight, in the afterglow of their lovemaking, he’ll share the intricacies of the conversation between husband and best friend…a gift, just for her…the details of which she longs to hear.

But it is not meant to be….

At least not on this night. For Miles is uncharacteristically silent tonight. And there is nothing Olivia can do to change that.

Not a damn thing…