"Do doo, that ice cold. Michelle Pfeiffer, that white gold." Amanda squeezed an ambitious dollop of shampoo into her palm—more sand dollar than quarter-sized—and sang a few more bars into the Pantene bottle before placing it back on the shower ledge. "Do doo hm-hmm hood girls, them good girls hmm hmm doo doo."
Working her hair into a thick, berry-scented lather, she bopped along to her own humming and the occasional outburst of lyrics when she knew them. Something about Chucks on with Saint Laurent. "Gotta kiss myself, I'm so pretty!" she belted, shimmying her shoulders and smooching loudly at thin air.
"I'm too hot, hot—dammit, ow." She hissed as a runnel of shampoo detoured into her eyeball while she rinsed. Positioning her face directly under the brisk stream from the showerhead, she rubbed at her eyes until vision was more or less restored. The concert commenced with a cautious twirl—if she slipped and fell in the tub, she really would need to call a police- and a fireman—to face her adoring audience on the back wall. And the crowd went wild when she broke it down for them, twerking beneath the jets, water splashing every which way off her energetically bouncing rear. J.Lo had nothing on A.Ro!
Just as the girls were about to hit their hallelujahs, an interruption in water pressure drew Amanda's attention towards the showerhead again. She did a sloppy little pirouette and immediately yelped in surprise to find Olivia standing in front of her, stark-naked and dripping wet. From tilted head to sensually cocked hip and coyly turned out heel, the captain's entire body exuded the smirk that tugged at one corner of her mouth. She looked smug as hell, and twice as sexy. Long, dark hair cascading over one shoulder, the damp ends adhering to her skin in a curl the shape of a question mark, she could have stepped right out of an exotic centerfold with a Tahitian waterfall as backdrop. Or a wet dream.
Amanda's, specifically.
So damn wet.
She opened her mouth to ask what had changed Olivia's mind—"Took one last night," had been the captain's sleepy response, her face buried somewhere among the bedclothes, when Amanda requested a shower buddy twenty minutes ago—but Olivia silenced her by pressing a finger to her lips. No talking. Intrigued, Amanda quirked an eyebrow and let her gaze speak for itself, raking over voluptuous curves, satin skin, and all those lovely russet freckles. They were dispersed everywhere, not just Olivia's face, a detail Amanda had discovered early on in their courtship, much to her delight. Since then, it had become her personal goal to kiss every single one of them. And judging by the captain's expression and slow, catlike approach, Amanda might get to add a few more to the tally very soon . . .
At the last second, Olivia reached around her and brought forth a bottle of conditioner, holding it up with a questioning look. Oh. Amanda nodded, trying not to let her shoulders sag too noticeably. It did feel pretty amazing when Olivia's fingers slid deep inside her silky, wet . . . hair.
Low in her throat, Amanda rumbled approval as those same skilled fingers began massaging her scalp. Eyes drifting closed, she surrendered complete control—if any remained—to the powerful hands that plied at her like an artist molding clay. She cupped her own hands lightly to either of Olivia's hips, basking, almost swaying to the rhythm. Until that moment, she hadn't considered her scalp to be much of an erogenous zone. Olivia Benson lived to prove her wrong.
She also lived to torment. The massage ended abruptly, and Amanda peeked from one eye to see her saturating a pouffy bath sponge with body wash. That pearly pink, fruit-scented stuff she loved. It was fine by Amanda; she'd walk around smelling like strawberry shortcake for the next day or two, if that's what her captain was into. Right now, Amanda was into the lazy circular motion of the sponge as it meandered over her neck and shoulders, down both arms, and back up to her breasts for the most thorough sudsing they had ever received.
