She licks her red lips. “Rate me,” she says slowly, “on my performance.”
That sounds more like Rose. “I give you a B minus. You struggled with your sisters.”
She crosses her arms, popping buttons on her shirt again, no bra, and this time, I notice her nipples hardening. My cock digs closer to her ass. She stiffens, her collarbones protruding.
Her cold voice never changes temperatures. “Well, I give you an F.” As expected.
She keeps flunking me today—with challenges that I’m certain I’d win, given any circumstance. “Are you trying to incite me, darling?” That’s usually my job.
“I speak the truth.”
She sounds like me. Those are my words. Swiftly, I spread her legs open with my feet, breaking them apart. She chokes on a pleasured noise, and I grip her ass beneath the button-down, my lips to her ear. “You’re plagiarizing me now.”
That one comment riles her, not in the way that I like. She spins on me, forcing her ass out of my clutch. Her back digs into the counter. I cage my arms around her, slyly turning on the faucet.
“So now you have a monopoly on truths?” She rests her palms flat on my bare chest as a warning, enraged. “I never plagiarize. You can’t copyright facts.”
This is all true, ironically. “Why did I fail?” I ask.
She raises her hand, to scratch at her hair, and I catch her wrist right before she succeeds. She exhales shortly and says, “You cursed Ryke out for real. You broke character, Connor.”
It’s not like that directly hurt our ploy. “I was me,” I state. That was a real reaction, an emotional one, she’s saying.
“You can’t be you,” she reminds me. “That’s the point of this. We play up the dramatics, be fodder for the media, be salacious and scandalous for popularity. We’re something else. You taught me this.”
You taught me this. She taught me how to be real. I taught her how to be fake.
I wish I could take pride in this part, but I have none. I don’t want to discuss it anymore. “Lean over,” I say. “Your eyes are watering.”
She rotates back around, leaning over and dipping her head into the sink’s basin, and without stepping away from her, I put on a new plastic glove, using one hand to wash her hair. I massage her scalp as I rinse the bleach. She tries to close her legs, but I keep my foot inside of hers, forcing them apart.
Her eyelids flutter open.
“Keep your eyes closed,” I command, worried that bleach and water will run in them.
She reluctantly shuts them again. “My neck hurts.” She tries shifting her shoulders.
With my free hand, I adjust her, turning her head a fraction, so she isn’t staring straight at the sink. “Better?”
“Mmmh.” She relaxes into the head message. With the bleach almost gone, I notice the color of her hair isn’t blonde—not yet at least. We needed to let it set longer than we had, and the strands are tawny, the color of rust.
Rose will call it orange.
She’s beautiful no matter what color hair, no matter if she had none, but she’ll be pissed. I just need her hair to smell good, so she won’t feel uncomfortable. When the bleach is rinsed, I discard the glove and lather shampoo along her scalp, her body loosening even more.
My cock has been patient enough. With my dry, clean hand, I skim the hem of her panties. And I rip them off.
Her eyes snap open. “Connor.”
“Close your eyes.”
She does, partially because shampoo begins to slide from her forehead to her nose. I wipe the soap away and continue kneading her scalp, washing off excess shampoo.
I run my fingers between her thighs. “You’ve been standing here this fucking wet?”
She breathes shallowly. “Connor…”
I drive two fingers inside of her, and she reaches out for something to grip for support. I guide her hands to the counter, so she can clutch the marble. Her wrists drip with water as I return my hand to her hair.
I lean closer to Rose, my hard cock digging against her ass and my lips brush her ear, my breath low and hot. “You better be ready for something bigger.”
She squeezes her eyes tighter closed and reaches for my hand between her thighs. “Wait…”
I retract my fingers and guide her hand back to the fucking sink. “If you have something important to say, then say it now, otherwise, I’m pushing into you.” I clasp the back of her head with more force, causing her throat to bob in arousal.
“Shut off the water,” she requests.
I turn the faucet off, so she can concentrate on us and not fear drowning. Then swiftly, I turn her around to face me, her back pressed against the lip of the counter. I grip her face in a strong hand and kiss her lips. “C’est tout?” Anything else?
She lets out another breath. “Ne soyez pas gentil.” Don’t be gentle.
I can’t even remember the last time that I was. “I wasn’t planning on it.” I lower my gym pants and compression shorts, finally free. In assured, hard movements, I lift her left leg high around my waist, her head tilted back and supported by my other hand. Then I grip my shaft and ram all the way into her.
She cries, her back arching off the counter. I keep her body stationary, and I thrust into her with deep, fast strokes, needing to do this quickly.
My body heats with hers. I push harder.
“Fuck,” Rose cries, her legs quivering. She has trouble catching her breath, her mouth open. I groan when she pulses against my cock.
I unbutton her shirt, her chest exposed, breasts bigger and fuller than before her pregnancy. It grips me even more, and I kiss her nipple before biting once. She moans and mutters a word that sounds like yes. I kiss the top of her breast before holding onto her waist, curvier—I thrust deeper.
“Connor,” she gasps.
I watch my long, throbbing cock disappear between her legs. Over and over. Inside the woman that I love. Inside the mother of my child. Inside my teammate and equal. A grin pulls at my lips. One more thrust and a blinding sensation washes over me. And her.
She shudders, her pulse quickening. I can almost feel her heart pounding.
“Oh God,” she mutters.
I straighten up and arch a brow at her.
She still has her eyes closed.
I slap her ass.
She moans again.
“I need to find a new way to reprimand you. You enjoy this too much.” I grip her ass, which I’d love to fuck one day. For another time, I know.
She props her body on her elbows, half of her still in my possession. “Honestly,” she breathes, “I’m not sure what I said.”
I slowly pull out of her, and she makes a choking sound. I rub her clit. “You thanked God again.”
“It’s a euphemism.”
“It’s an annoying euphemism when I’m the one who makes you come.”
She licks her lips. “I was going to give you an A plus for the sex, but I’m dropping your score to a B.”
“I don’t like your grading methods.”
“I don’t like your face.” Her eyes dance around my features in pure attraction.
“Maybe you should say that without looking like you want me nine-inches deep inside of you.”
“Maybe it’s not you that I want in me.”
I raise my brows and stop rubbing her—the statement is such a lie that it’s hard to even react negatively. “You’ve had plenty of other opportunities.” And she never took any of them when we were younger. Technically speaking, she waited for me. If I was more moral, I think I’d feel guilty for not returning the favor. But sex wasn’t emotional for me.