7. Seven

Seven

A rt shifts backwards off the bed and pulls us upright, pausing to steady himself as he stands. My head rests perfectly against the curve of his neck, and he keeps his arms wrapped tight around my waist as he walks us into the en suite. He twists the chrome dial of the shower and steps into the cascade of water, resting me against the cold wall tiles. I increase my grip around his waist as he slides his hands beneath my buttocks, taking my weight.

"I'll have to put you down to wash you." He places a kiss on the tip of my nose and looks at me. "I can't do it while I'm holding you. I'd worry about dropping you."

I'm not ready for him to put me down. Not yet.

"Then, I'll wash you." I reach for my shampoo, clicking open the cap and squeezing out an amount into my palm.

The familiar perfume fills the steamy air as I work the lather into his hair. The thought of the big hulk between my thighs smelling of flowers for the rest of the day makes me smile.

He sighs and closes his eyes. "This is nice. I like this. The first time we took a shower together, I tried to do this, but we didn't get very far, if I recall." He smirks. "You distracted me."

He fucked me against the wall. More like he distracted me .

I kiss him and carry on, massaging his scalp. His eyes are still closed. He looks totally relaxed. I almost don't want to stop.

"Time to rinse."

He steps back beneath the shower head, letting the warm water sluice over our bodies, and I run my fingers through his hair to rinse out the soap. Next, I take my shower gel, and I'm about to squeeze some out when he stops me.

"I need to take over from here." He looks from the shower gel to me. "If you wash me, there's no way I'm going to be able to control myself."

I smile. Although I want to, I know he's probably right.

He carefully lowers me down and takes the bottle from my hand, shifting to stand behind me. He squeezes some out and begins to wash me. The Art who fucked me senseless five minutes ago has left the building, and a gentle giant is in his place. Large, strong hands sweep down my curves with the lightest of touches as he carefully and tenderly cleans his release from between my thighs, as if I were a fragile doll.

"This smell reminds me of you," he says, circling his hands around my breasts. "I love it."

And I love this. Being looked after.

"I love it when you do this. I feel close to you in a different way to when we have sex," I admit.

I close my eyes at the feel of his lips pressing against the curve of my neck. "Me too."

Art repeats the same process for himself, washes the soap from our bodies, and then turns off the shower. He wraps a small grey towel around my hair, puts a towel around his waist, and then bundles us into a larger towel. He picks me up once more, and I keep close to him, wrapping my legs around his waist as he carries me through to the walk-in wardrobe. He carefully puts me down and kisses my forehead as I wrap myself in the towel.

"Will you come to the club?" There's a hopeful note to his voice.

I know he's trying to put my mind at ease. Maybe I should. "Okay," I agree, glancing over my shoulder.

He pulls on a pair of dark grey jeans and a very tight navy polo shirt. He smiles. "Thank you."

I stare contemplatively at my clothes, swinging the towel I used to dry my hair. "So, what do I wear to a strip club in the day?"

"Whatever you want." He pulls the towel from my hands and rubs it through his hair.

"Whatever I want?" I tease, pulling on a black lace bra and knickers. I'm tempted to joke about wearing my burlesque outfit like the last time I went there but decide it's probably best not to start another argument, being as we've only just made up.

He catches the mischievous glint in my eye and lifts an eyebrow. "Within reason, of course."

I idly thumb through the clothes hanging on the rail, deciding that simple is probably best.

"Hurry up and choose something."

He rakes a hand through his damp hair, causing a tendril to fall across his forehead. I want him.

I tear my eyes away and focus on the wardrobe. It's been less than half an hour since we last had sex; I'm turning into some sex-crazed madwoman.

"I'm working on it," I say distractedly, pulling a strappy black summer dress from its hanger.

He sidles up behind me, sliding his hands around my waist and putting his mouth to my ear. "You're too slow." He nips my neck with his teeth and twists me round, so we're both facing the mirror. "Whenever I see you in black lace, I want to get you out of it."

His eyes meet mine in the mirror. My core fizzes in anticipation of what's to come.

He can't. I can't. We've only just …

He pushes a hand into my knickers, and his fingers graze my clitoris.

Yes, he can.

I lose my grip, and the dress falls in a heap at my feet. I relax backwards against him and feel the bulge in his groin press into my buttocks. His fingers massage my clit, sending a throb of delight shooting through me, and I tilt my head back and close my eyes as he nuzzles my neck.

"I can't get enough of you," he breathes into my ear. "Look at how beautiful you are."

My eyes open, and I focus on us in the mirror as he carries on. The sight of him pleasuring me causes the ache in my centre to spike, and I moan, reaching up to grab his hair. He increases the pressure of his fingers, and I wriggle, arching my back as it gets to be too much. I come undone – a groaning, shuddering wreck – as he plants soft kisses on my neck, and I sag against him. He removes his hand from my underwear and curls his arms around my waist, resting his chin on my shoulder.

"Now, get dressed, or I can't promise I won't do it again."

I throw him a cheeky smile. "That's not much of an incentive."

He untangles himself from me and strokes a hand across my bum. "I'm beginning to think I'm a bad influence on you." He flashes a wicked grin and disappears out of the room.

I smile. So am I.