“I hate that one,” he admitted, voice soft.
I reached up and kissed it, slow and unhurried. “I love it. It means you survived.”
He shuddered, but let me keep going.
I worked the shirt off his arms and tossed it to the hamper. Then I moved to his belt, unbuckled it, and eased his jeans down, careful of the zipper over the uneven scar on his hip. He watched me the whole time, eyes never leaving my face, like he was waiting for me to show revulsion or even pity. I gave him neither.
When I reached his boxers, I hesitated—not because I was shy, but because I wanted him to see that every part of him was precious to me. I peeled them down, knelt on the cold tile, and wrapped my arms around his thighs, cheek pressed against the gentle swell of muscle. His hands went to my hair, fingers stroking my scalp.
I looked up at him. “You are the most beautiful man I have ever seen.”
He made a noise in his throat, but didn’t argue.
I stood, cupped his face in both hands, and kissed him, long and slow. He tasted like salt and heat and the faint tang of beer. When I pulled away, his eyes were damp, just a little.
“Now,” I said, “get in the shower, and let me take care of you.”
He stepped into the steam, his giant frame nearly filling the space, and held the glass door open for me. I stripped out of my dress and stepped in; the heat prickling my skin. The water ran in rivulets over his scars, highlighting every contour. I took a washcloth, lathered it with soap, and started at his shoulders, scrubbing gently. I worked my way down, pausing at every scar to press a kiss or run my tongue along its length. He didn’t say a word, just let his head tip back, eyes closed.
When I reached his lower stomach, I knelt again, letting the water cascade over my head and down my back. His cock was already hard, thick and beautiful, resting against his stomach. I looked up at him, seeking permission.
He nodded, so I took him in my mouth, slow at first, savoring the feel of him. The water made everything slick and warm. He groaned, hands bracing on the tile above my head, hips rocking forward. I sucked him deeper, letting my tongue trace the vein that ran along the underside, one hand cupping his balls, the other gripping the back of his thigh. He tasted like skin and salt, and I wanted to memorize every inch.
His voice was rough. “Sunshine, you don’t have to—”
I pulled off just long enough to say, “I want to. I want to love every part of you, inside and out.”
He let me. His hands tangled in my wet hair, guiding me, but never forcing. I took as much of him as I could, gagged a little, but kept going. The noises he made were feral, desperate. He started to move, shallow thrusts at first, then deeper as he lost control. The washcloth fell from my hand; I gripped his thighs instead, holding on as he fucked my mouth, slow and careful.
“Fuck, Aspen,” he groaned. “I’m close.”
He tried to pull away, but I held him there, wanting him to let go, to trust me. He came with a shout, hot and bitter, filling my mouth. I swallowed, loving the way his whole body shook, how he looked down at me with awe and wonder.
I stood, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and pressed up against him, water and sweat and tears all mixing together. He hugged me tight, lifting me off the ground, and buried his face in my neck.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “I needed that. I needed you.”
“I know,” I said, and meant it.
We stood like that, water pounding down, until the room was full of steam and the mirror had fogged over completely. He finally set me down, grabbed the shampoo, and washed my hair with such care it made me want to cry. Conditioner came next. Then he carefully rinsed until my hair was silky smooth.
“Lift your arms,” he said, and I did, and he started washing me with a soft blue washcloth from before, lathered with lemon verbena soap. He started at my breasts, letting the cloth drag across my nipples just enough to make me whimper. He grinned, pleased with my reaction.
“Perfect,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the way the water beaded and ran down my skin.
He knelt lower, trailing the soapy cloth over my belly, my hips, down the outsides of my thighs. His fingers were reverent, tracing every dip and curve as if memorizing me from the inside out. He paused at a faint scar on my left knee—a remnant from childhood—and pressed his mouth to it, soft and slow.
He set the cloth aside, running his hands over my calves and feet, then rose, towering above me. His cock was half-hard again, heavy and beautiful, bobbing against his thigh. Knowing that I caused that reaction in him was a heady feeling.
When he finished, he pressed my back against the cool tile wall, his hands lightly running down my body. His hand slid between my thighs, two fingers finding my slick heat and circling it, slow and purposeful. My head lolled back against the tile.
“Open for me,” he said, and I did, widening my stance as far as I could.
He sank to his knees; the steam swirling around us, and buried his face in my pussy. The first stroke of his tongue was lightning, and I nearly slid down the wall. He held my hips, keeping me steady as he licked, sucked, and teased. The man was relentless, alternating between gentle flicks and deep, obscene thrusts that made my whole body clench. The water ran over his head, soaking his hair and streaming down his back.
I tangled my fingers in his hair, holding on for dear life as he devoured me. He lifted my right leg, placing my foot on his shoulder, opening me further. Every time I gasped or moaned, he doubled down, licking me harder, faster. The leg I was balancing on shook, and I thought I might fall, but he never let me slip.
The orgasm built fast, sharp and mean, and when it hit, I cried out, fingers twisting in his scalp as my hips bucked uncontrollably. I dropped my foot to the floor. He held my hips through it, licking me until I was shaking so hard I had to beg him to stop.
