“You like that?” Kade’s voice is rough against my ear, his breath hot on my neck. “Like feeling me inside you?”
A shudder ripples through me. “Yes,” I gasp as he shifts his angle, hitting that perfect spot. “Fuck, Kade.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating against my skin. “Love it when you swear,” he murmurs, nipping at my earlobe. “Means my Golden Boy is losing control.”
His pace slows to an agonizing crawl, each thrust now deliberate and deep. My cock throbs against the tile, desperate for release. As if reading my mind, Kade’s hand slides from my hip, trailing across my abdomen, fingers dancing along my skin until they wrap around my length.
“Is this what you need?” His grip tightens, thumb swiping over the sensitive head.
I hiss in response, eyes squeezing shut against the dual assault of sensations—his cock stretching me from behind, hishand working me from the front. Water pounds against our bodies, turning every touch into something slick and electric.
“Look at you,” Kade continues, voice dropping lower. “Taking me so well. Always so fucking perfect for me.”
The praise washes over me, heightening every sensation. In these moments, being called “perfect” doesn’t feel like the burden it once did—it’s a celebration, not an expectation. I push back against him, taking him deeper, my body communicating what my throat, tight with pleasure, cannot.
Kade gathers both my wrists in one hand, pinning them above my head against the tile. The position forces my back to arch, my ass to pressing more firmly against him. His other hand maintains its rhythm on my cock, his grip relentless.
“Mine,” he growls, punctuating his statement with a deep thrust that makes stars burst behind my eyelids. “Every perfect inch of you. Mine.”
“Yours,” I agree, the word escaping on a broken moan. “Always—fuck—always yours.”
His rhythm falters for just a moment, a tell I’ve learned to recognize. He’s close. The knowledge sends a thrill through me—that I can affect him this way, that my body, my words, my pleasure drives him to the edge.
“Want to feel you come,” he says, his voice strained now, control slipping. “Feel you clenching around me.”
His hand speeds up, matching the erratic pace of his hips. The dual stimulation is overwhelming, pushing me toward a precipice I’m desperate to fall from. My muscles tense, pressure building at the base of my spine.
“Kade,” I warn, the only word I can manage.
“Do it,” he commands, teeth grazing my shoulder. “Give it to me.”
The pressure breaks. Pleasure crashes through me in violent waves, my release pulsing over his fingers, against the shower wall. My vision blurs, legs trembling, only Kade’s body behind me and his hand on my wrists, keeping me upright.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Kade chants, his rhythm faltering as he follows me over the edge. His hips stutter, pressing flush against me as he empties himself inside me, his forehead dropping to rest between my shoulder blades.
For several long moments, we remain frozen, breathing hard, hearts racing in tandem. Then Kade releases my wrists, his arms wrapping around my waist as he presses gentle kisses to my neck, my shoulders, everywhere he can reach.
“Morning,” he murmurs, a smile in his voice.
I laugh breathlessly, turning in his embrace until we’re face to face. “Morning to you, too. Some wake-up call.”
“Thought you’d appreciate a proper send-off before my class.” His hands slide up to cup my face, thumbs stroking along my cheekbones. The tenderness in the gesture contrasts with the intensity of moments before, the duality that makes Kade so addictive.
“Consider me thoroughly sent off.” I lean in, capturing his mouth in a soft kiss that deepens, his tongue sliding against mine with familiar ease.
We eventually separate, necessity rather than desire driving us to clean ourselves. I watch as Kade tilts his head back underthe spray, water sluicing down the lean planes of his body. His hair, even darker when wet, has grown longer over the past few months, curling at the nape of his neck. It suits him, softening the sharp edges of his face without diminishing the intensity that drew me to him.
“You’re staring,” he says, eyes closed, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Am I not allowed to appreciate the view in my own shower?”
“Our shower,” he corrects, reaching for the shampoo. “And I didn’t say stop.”
It’s been a month since we moved out of our parents’ guest house and found a small one-bedroom close to campus, packed our things, and created a space that belongs only to us. No parents across the garden. Just Kade and me, figuring out how to be together in the full light of day.
We finish our shower, moving around each other with ease. Kade wipes the steam from the mirror with one hand while reaching for his toothbrush with the other. I squeeze past him to grab a towel, my hand brushing his lower back as I do—a casual touch, an acknowledgment of shared space.
Once dried and dressed, we migrate to the kitchen. Kade moves to the coffee maker—the fancy one his dad bought us as a housewarming gift—while I pull bread from the cupboard for toast. Morning sunlight streams through our small kitchen window, turning Kade’s dark hair golden at the edges.
