Leap of Faith
Only the dim recessed light above the mirror in the dressing area spilled in through the frosted glass enclosure. Alex stood, back to the door, showerhead set on pulse, water beating against his shoulders. Closing his eyes, he drew in a lungful of the thick moist air, wishing he could stay under the soothing massage forever. He’d have to be downstairs in half an hour for the cocktail party, but a few extra minutes luxuriating under the pulsing
heat of the hotel showerhead was simply irresistible.
The only image in his mind?…the luscious Italian model turned actress he’d just dismissed
from his hotel room before doing what he’d really fancied with her—peel that white eyelet bikini from her exquisite curves and drizzle chocolate sauce with whipped cream chaser on every incredible curve. All thought of obligation whisked away as he cursed the networking cocktail doo he’d have to attend. Downstairs in the elegant great room the crème de la crème of Italian film was about to meet Hollywood’s elite. Hunter had told him not to be late.
The fingers of water melted the knots along his shoulder blades. Arching his neck he allowed his head to drop back in release.
So absorbed was he in his own thoughts, he didn’t hear the soft click of the shower door. Slippery arms slid by the sides of his waist, delicate boneless hands along his abdomen grazing so close…past his package and down the tops of his thighs. He drew in a sharp breath and held it for a long moment before opening his eyes. He couldn’t see her, but he felt her press her body against his back, interrupting the pulse of the water, replacing its allure with that of her own. Breasts now firm against him made all the more sensitive by the heat of the water, he felt every curve as she wrapped one long leg about his hip, slid it down his thigh. Her mouth at his ear, hand squeezing his thigh, she whispered, “Standa still.”
His first reaction would have been to tighten his body, but this surprise was a welcome one.
They’d said their goodbyes just minutes before, she scurrying to dress to meet the director who’d encouraged her attendance at the festival. Jesus…she’d actually taken him up on his jest. The only thing that’d keep me from the party is some warm wet enigma with eager hands. That’s what he’d said as she grabbed her beach towel and headed for the door,
he for the shower.
Her pubic bone against the right cheek of his ass, soft abrasion of hair at the indentation
there, he knew she’d not entered the enclosure with bikini still on. This woman was naked, warm and…fuck. Words escaped him. She had released her hands from their firm grasp at his thigh muscles and now cupped his balls. In one hand a bar of soap, she slid its soft slippery surface around him. He couldn’t help but clench his jaw as she stroked him,
one hand ministering to his now hard shaft, the other sliding the soap across his abdomen, to his chest across his pecs onto the column of his throat. He thought his lungs had ceased functioning with the sensation. Gut coiling, desire jetting through his veins, he reached one arm to the touchstone of the wall, trying to keep his world intact. He heard her drop the bar of soap into the dish on the wall, that hand now joining its twin in service of his throbbing equipment.
Shit…what was she doing? It wasn’t enough that the woman had the firmness of those fabulous breasts against his back, drawing the sanity from him with wanting to touch her, now she had his shaft sandwiched between two talented palms, squeezing, twisting, rubbing along it as though starting a campfire with nothing but two sticks and some kindling…him. When her thumbs swirled across his sensitive head he thought a bolt of lightening had struck. Clenched jaw now morphed to grinding teeth as he drew in a sharp breath of ecstatic escalation. That’s it. He had to have her.
Turning around in her arms to face her, he lowered his head, mouth now open and struggling for air. Her eyes tilted up to his, pupils dilated, dark with desire, she
opened her mouth as though to speak. No…she was drawing in air like an athlete as well, as turned on as he. That discovery spiked his need ten notches as she slid her hands back to minister to his granite hard on. Lord…more of the same. He gasped, looked to the ceiling as though some ethereal power would save him from what? He was already in heaven.
Closing eyes again, grasping for the wall, the bar at the door, he opened his mouth and gulped at the air as though there weren’t enough left to supply him. What was she doing? Where’d she learnt this?…shit. She pulled firmly, gently, twisting palms around him, cupping balls, frictioning along shaft in random alternations. Open palms, firm fingers against upper thighs, inner thighs, everywhere at once. God the sensitive sensation of it. He felt like he’d explode any moment. It was too much, too good. Could he pull away before he expired? No…yes…shit. Panting like a dog, he held onto the bar, the wall. She brushed her chest, those beaded breasts against his pecs as she continued in pursuit of his sanity. Hand around his back grasping one ass cheek, drawing him against her. Other hand still at him, stroking, swirling thumb across head, a tug, a swirl. Holy shit. He erupted into her hand spasming, nearly losing his ability to stand, holding on for dear life…Lord…life…would he survive? Rainbows, fireworks, LSD trip, surreal explosive shattering ecstasy. The rumbling groan from deep within him matched the release in intensity.
He let go of the bar, the wall and draped arms around her, pulling her into him, chin hooked over her shoulder, still struggling for air. He held her until he could cobble some semblance of control. Hands sliding to her shoulders, he pushed her back just far enough to engage her eyes.
“Where the fookin’ hell did you learn that?”
“Imagination…inspiration.” Her voice was low, raspy. She looked into him as though she could read his very soul. “Now how about I washa the rest of you?”
He growled, “Madelinela, I have to…you have to get to the party.”
“No problema, amoure.” She flashed an impish grin and pushed out the glass door as she had entered; softly, swiftly as a cat burglar. Her tanned outline disappeared
through the mist.
“I sure hope you and Marcelo make it to Cannes.” He called after her. Smiling, he finished his shower and headed for the bedroom. She’d gone. Only the floral of her perfume
reminded him how much he loved being the man of the hour, the star every director courted and every starlet fancied a shag.
Dressing quickly, he straightened the silk knot of his tie, ran a hand through his hair and nodded approval into the mirror of the armoire. For one long moment a wave of sadness
washed over him, loneliness. What man in his right mind would pass on his luck; the ability to have any woman? Still, he’d not done it; he’d not fallen for any of them. Eyes refocusing on his dapper appearance, he shook off the unwanted ennui, popped key into breast pocket and was out the door.
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