All of him.
For the first time in real light.
My gaze drags down his body, unhurried and reverent. Every inch of him is impossibly sculpted and beautiful. From the damp strands of his dark hair to the shape of his calves, there is nothing I don’t find perfect. Nothing I don’t want to worship.
“I have another confession,” I say, breathless from more than steam.
He steps closer, circling my waist with his arms as the water pelts my back in a steady, searing rhythm.
“Yeah?” His voice is low, curious. “What’s that?”
“This is my first shower with a man.”
The smile that blooms across his face is slow and devastatingly tender.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yep.” I nod. “My very first one.”
“Wow,” he murmurs, amusement sliding into something warm and intimate. “We’re tackling lots of firsts these past couple of days.”
“Definitely,” I agree, my pulse kicking at my ribs.
“Well,” he says, leaning in, “if this is your first time… I want to make sure it’s as memorable as possible.”
Goose bumps race over my entire body.
Miles bends and kisses me, crashing his mouth onto mine—deep, alluring, hungry. One hand splays across my sternum, guiding me gently but firmly until my back meets the cool tile. The contrast of heat and chill makes my breath hitch.
His lips leave mine only to trail a slow, burning path along my throat, across my collarbone, and down onto my chest. He takes his time, lingering over each breast, pulling a nipple into his mouth, sucking softly, then harder, until my knees threaten to give out.
Water cascades over us as he continues his descent, kissing a wet line down my stomach. He sinks to his knees, stopping right at the apex of my thighs. My breath falters.
With one hand, he lifts my leg and drapes it over his shoulder, steadying me effortlessly.
I brace against the wall, anticipation coiling tight.
“I don’t know if I can,” I breathe, thinking of how many times he’s already pulled me apart in the last twenty-four hours, how my body feels deliciously overstimulated and raw.
He looks up at me through long, dark lashes, water dripping from them like something out of a fever dream. His eyes—those impossible blue eyes—spark with mischief and desire. He licks his lips slowly, deliberately.
“Oh, you definitely can,” he says, voice deep with promise.
Then he buries his face between my legs.
His tongue finds me instantly—soft at first, slow strokes that unravel the tension in my spine, then firmer, more intentional,circling the bundle of nerves that makes pleasure crackle through me like electricity. My head falls back against the tile, my fingers threading instinctively into his hair as a moan breaks free from my lips.
The water pours down in sheets. My body begins to hum, to burn, to come alive all over again. The warm streams beat against my skin, hot and relentless, but his touch is hotter—his lips, his tongue, the firm strength of his hands holding me steady as my back presses into the cold tile.
My breath catches. Then breaks. With a firm swipe of his tongue, I’m gone.
The pleasure takes me by the spine, a sharp, rising pull that steals the air from my lungs. My fingers twist in his hair, my forehead tipping back against the wall as the world tilts—heat, water, him. My body tightens around the sensation, trembling as the wave crests and crashes, shudder after shudder rolling through me until I have nothing left to give but a strangled gasp of his name.
He doesn’t look away. He watches me come apart like it’s his favorite sight in the world.
By the time I sag against the tile, boneless, breathless, he rises—slowly, deliberately—his hands gliding up my hips, my waist, my ribs. Every inch of me feels claimed by him, yet somehow worshipped, too.
When he reaches my face, he cups my cheeks with warm, sure hands. Water drips from his hair onto my shoulders. His breath mixes with mine, both of us unsteady for different reasons.
