Dear Rosie, (Love Letters #2)

“Just this side left,” he says to himself as he touches his fingertips to my skin.

I can’t help my jolt at the contact, but then he applies a little more pressure as he slides his fingers down the crease where my thigh meets my center, feeling the smoothness of the area I just shaved.

He reaches his fingers between my legs, sliding over until they’re aligned with my slit, then he drags them forward.

Even with the residual oil on my skin, there’s no mistaking the new wetness gathering there.

Nathan groans. “Just let me do this.” His fingers stop against my clit, and he holds them there. “Let me do this first, then I’ll make you come as much as you can handle.” He drags his fingers off my clit. “Tell me that’s okay.”

My eyes are nearly rolling out of my head. “Yes. Just hurry up.”

He chuckles, and then his other hand is there, smoothing the oil over my skin.

I should be nervous about having someone this close, ready to drag a sharp blade over the sensitive skin of my pussy.

But when he holds me open…

When he drags the razor across my skin the first time…

All I can feel is pleasure.

Pleasure at having his hands on me.

Pleasure at knowing he’s hard as stone doing this.

Pleasure at having someone take care of me.

Nathan holds the razor under the shower stream, then starts again.

ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-FIVE

NATE

My cock is fucking dripping onto the shower floor.

I don’t know if I’ve ever been this turned on before.

Which seems to be how I feel every time with Rosie.

The act itself, the glide of the razor over skin, isn’t sexual.

But fuck me if it doesn’t have me ready to come all over her feet.

My cock twitches, and I put the thought of her cute little toes out of my mind.

There’s only time for one new kink today.

I use my fingers to spread Rosie open, checking for any spots I missed.

Her flesh is so soft. So pink and pretty.

If she wasn’t covered in this floral-scented oil, I’d devour her. But I know this isn’t edible, so I’ll settle for fucking her hole instead of eating it.

With one last pass of the razor, I set it down on the floor, out of the way.

Still kneeling, I wrap my fingers around her injured ankle and gently help her lower it back to the floor.

Then I grab the little jar off the stool and look at the label as I stand. “What’s this?”