I turn slowly, deliberately. I let the water cascade down my shoulders, rivulets tracing paths between my breasts, over my stomach. His eyes don’t drop. They stay on my face, dark and intent, like he’s anchoring himself there on purpose.
Steam curls around us like a veil, and through it, I hold his gaze. My lips part slightly, voice emerging low and unhurried, each word deliberate as I ask, “Do you like to watch, Gage?”
The question hangs in the humid air between us, honest and unadorned.
Something flickers across his expression—surprise first, a widening of his pupils that makes the blue-gray of his eyes nearly disappear, then heat that flushes his cheekbones and tightens the cords of his neck, then control snapping back into place like a rubber band pulled taut.
His answer comes low, steady, the words vibrating from somewhere deep in his chest, like each syllable costs him something vital to keep that even.
“Only you.”
The words land heavy and warm in my chest, spreading outward like honey poured over bare skin, sweet and viscous and impossible to wash away.
I inhale slowly, letting the truth of it settle. Then, without breaking eye contact, I trail my fingertips from my collarbone down between my breasts. His pupils dilate until only a thin ring of blue-gray remains. The steam curls around us, but I notice how his chest barely moves, how his knuckles whiten against the countertop. A muscle in his jaw twitches. When my hands continue their journey lower, his breath catches—a small, strangled sound that sends electricity racing up my spine. My lips curve upward, just slightly, as I arch into my own touch.
My lips part, the words forming before I can second-guess them. “What if...” The question hangs between heartbeats as my fingertips trace the curve of my hip. “I want to watch too?”
His throat works, the tendons in his neck pulling taut. The blue in his eyes disappears entirely as he grips the counter edge until his knuckles bleach white. “Do you?” The question scrapes from somewhere deep in his chest.
I hold his gaze through the steam, my answer a whisper that feels like a promise. “Only you.”
He turns fully toward me, whatever he came in for forgotten as it slips from his fingers and clatters softly onto the counter. His back meets the counter's edge, his palms flattening against the surface on either side of his hips. The tendons in his forearms stand out. His chest rises and falls in shallow bursts.
His eyes leave mine. The descent is gradual—first to my throat, then lower. His lips part slightly, and a muscle jumps in his jaw. Tiny bumps rise across my shoulders, down my arms, despite steam curling between us like morning fog.
When my palm slides down to cup my breast, his breath catches—a tiny, strangled sound that sends heat pooling low in my belly. The corner of my mouth lifts as I circle my nipple,noting how his jaw clenches tight enough to make a muscle jump beneath the stubble there.
I half expect him to stalk into the shower and cover my hand with his own, but he stays against the counter, and I stay under the shower head.
I sink my teeth into my lower lip when his restraint finally bends.
He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his navy swim trunks—the only thing he's wearing—and pushes them down just enough. My breath catches. The muscles in his forearm flex as his hand wraps around his cock.
It’s long and thick, and something inside me tightens in response. His eyelids flutter, head tilting back just slightly as his chest rises and falls with each controlled movement. A sound escapes him—deep and raw—as his grip tightens, his rhythm steady and deliberate.
My eyes linger, heat spreading across my skin that has nothing to do with the shower. When I finally look up, his pupils have swallowed the blue-gray entirely. His voice comes rough, barely audible over the water.
“Don't stop, Bell.”
The request is a plea and a dare. My pulse stutters. I keep my gaze on his hand, on the slow, tight turn of his wrist, on the flawless tension in his arm. The raw hunger in him is a living thing—gnawing, barely contained by the glass between us.
I flatten my palm against the shower, pressing my breasts forward so that the water and the heat and his attention flood me all at once. My other hand trails down over my stomach, pausing at that soft, sensitive dip above my hip bone. I could stop, but I don’t.
I let my fingers slip between my thighs, the shower’s heat and the steam, and the intoxication of being watched. I’m not coy. I don’t pretend to be embarrassed. I want him to see me.
He watches with a hunger so raw it makes my skin prickle. He strokes himself with the same measured determination he brings to everything—as if letting himself lose control, even for a moment, the world might tip off its axis.
I test that theory.
I let my head fall back and lift my right leg to the little bench, opening myself up.
“Fuck me,” he breathes out, the faintest tremor betraying how close he is.
I drag my finger through my pussy, teasing myself with soft, light touches. The sound he makes—half growl, half whimper—punches through me, makes me ache in places that have nothing to do with my own touch.
“Keep going, Bell. Show me what you like,” he practically begs.
I sink my finger inside myself, the heat there meeting the heat of his gaze. A soft moan escapes my lips as I begin to move, my hips rising to meet each thrust. My eyelids grow heavy, but I force them to stay open—I won't miss a moment of him.
