Page 82 of Tipping Point

She laughs and ties the curls up out of the spray, tendrils at her neck already wet, darker in the water.

The water beads on her breasts, trickles down her tummy, runs in rivulets down her legs. I follow its trail with my fingers.

She keeps her eyes on mine as my fingers trail lower, parting the lips of her vulva, dipping between to the slippery wetness there. She’s still slick with me. When I withdraw my hands, the slick coating covers my fingers, and I drag it over her bottom lip.

I lean down and take her bottom lip in my mouth, then I dip my tongue in her mouth, deepen the kiss, wrapping my arms around her as she flings her arms around my neck, and presses our bodies together as the water pools between us, where her breasts are pressed up against me.

Already my erection is stirring again. She smiles as it twitches against her. She lifts a leg and I grab her knee, but I don’t hitch her up. I walk her backwards against the icy wall of the shower and she gasps as the cold seeps into her. Then, still holding her knee, water raining down over her waist and legs, I kneel, and I get a thrill of delight at the twitch in her thigh as I take her clit into my mouth, tucking her leg over my shoulder.

Again, I’m wary of the pain that sensitivity can cause. She just orgasmed. Her clit is still hard. With my tongue pressed flat against her, I tug her in, sucking gently.

She strangles her fingers into my hair. Water pours over me, mingling with her taste.

She opens her leg wider, and I nuzzle in closer. Flick her with my tongue. She moans and writhes against me. Starts pulling me up. She wants me inside her when she comes.

I oblige. I drop her leg from over my shoulder and stand up, grab her by the shoulder, and turn her around. Immediately, she brings her hands up against the shower wall, thrusting her ass towards me. I grab her by the hips and pull her against me, bend my knees and thrust up from below. She gasps and moans, brings her forearms against the wall, and strains back against me, trying to offer me resistance so I can bury myself deeper inside her. She turns her head, looking at me over her shoulder.

Those grey eyes, drops of water glistening on her lashes.

I fuck her hard and fast and I fuck up. I’m coming first, but she joins me seconds after, clenching down on me in waves. It’s ecstasy.

She’s trembling when we’re done and I pull her back against my stomach, the cold from the shower wall still lingering on her skin. She shivers and I hold her as I let the warm water wash over us, warming us up.

She leans her head back against my shoulder, and I run my hand over her neck.

I grab the soap and start running it over her neck and shoulders. Her breasts shift as I run a soapy hand beneath them, over her ribs, down to her clit. I run a soapy hand between the lips of her labia and bring it around her thighs, over her ass, between her cheeks, running my fingers down and around the front where I cup her for a moment. She lets me touch her wherever I want. She’s weak against me, legs trembling. When the water washes the soap away, she lets me scoop her up again and I deposit her, still wet, onto the bed. She’s too tired to fuss. She lies back against the plush pillows and folds her hands on her stomach, one leg drawn up. Her eyes follow me as I pull on a pair of sweatpants, travelling over me, lids lowered, sleepy. She’s had as long a day as I have, probably longer.

“Hungry?” I ask.

She laughs.

* * *

CAMILLE

In Singapore, he pressed me up against the glass wall of windows looking out over the city below and fisted a hand in my hair as he fucked me from behind. He chartered a private plane for our flight here to Japan. It had a bedroom where he stripped me bare, wrapped me in lush sheets and kissed, licked, and nibbled every part of me before hoisting me up to stand on my knees, holding onto the headboard while he drew me down on his face, fingers digging into me as he pulled me down on his mouth fast and hard. When we arrived in Japan, he took me to his private suite at the Oriental Orchid Luxury Hotel, a serene suite with tatami flooring, shoji screens and a view out over a private garden, the mist-topped Suzuka mountains in the distance.

There was a spring fed hot tub in the middle of the private garden and there I sat atop him, his hands on my hips, the water lapping at my waist as I rocked him deep inside me until he groaned and writhed and bucked up out of the water in agonised ecstasy.

I was tired. We’d been filming nonstop. Singapore’s track had been slick and wet, a slippery death trap at the speeds the drivers were doing. Finn had placed eleventh, much to Erik’s disappointment. It didn’t seem to bother Finn at all. I tried to talk to him about it, but we had so little time together, and we didn’t spend that time talking.

At all.

Jay is cautiously staying out of my business, but he knows something is up. I’ve missed two scheduled calls with Dixon, and I have a video call scheduled with him and Mr Higher Up for a progress report.

I’ve been pushing it. I oversleep. Frantically, I scramble out of Finn’s bed the Thursday before qualifying and pull on the first thing I can find, one of Finn’s sweatshirts. Then I angle my laptop towards a blank wall, tying up my mess of hair and logging in just in time. Both of them are already logged on and waiting for me.

Finn grins from the bed and rises languidly, walking naked over to the kitchen where he gets started on coffee.

I give him cease and desist waves from where I am sitting cross-legged on the floor, but he just raises an eyebrow at me.

Dixon looks better. He looks well. I feel a pang of regret at having missed his calls. His cheeks have filled out, and he even makes a joke.

Then it’s all business.

“Filming schedule?”

As I get to know more and more about the industry, I keep expanding on what to film. Brief shots into the wider and wider rings cast by the racing industry.