She's fecking gorgeous.
All soft curves and smooth skin, her body a landscape I want to explore with my hands and mouth and tongue.
The towel clings to her, damp and thin, hinting at everything it's supposed to conceal.
Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy knot, exposing the elegant line of her neck, the delicate shell of her ear.
I watch a single droplet trace its path from her hairline, down the side of her throat, over her collarbone, and into the valley between her breasts where the towel begins.
I track it like it's the most important thing in the world.
Like that droplet is living my dreams.
She shifts her weight, reaching higher, and the towel slips.
Not all the way, but just enough.
The tuck above her breasts loosens, and the fabric slides down an inch.
Then another.
I see the swell of her breasts, the upper curve exposed, the towel barely clinging to her nipples through what seems like sheer force of will.
She doesn't notice.
Or maybe she does and doesn't care.
Either way, she keeps reaching, keeps stretching, and the towel keeps slipping, and I'm frozen in my doorway like a man watching his own destruction in slow motion.
Then she turns.
Our eyes meet in the mirror.
She doesn't scramble to fix the towel.
Doesn't gasp or cover herself or look away.
She just... holds my gaze.
Lets me look.
Lets me see the flush spreading across her chest, the way her breath has quickened, the way her nipples have hardened beneath the damp fabric.
"See something you like?" Her voice is low.
Husky.
A challenge and an invitation wrapped in four words.
Any control I have snaps within an instant.
I cross the hallway in three strides, push open the bathroom door, and pin her against the counter.
My mouth finds hers before she can say another word, and I kiss her like I'm drowning and she's air.
Like I've been starving for weeks and she's a feast.
Like nothing else in the world exists except the taste of her and the feel of her body against mine.
