“How does it feel?” he asks, his voice like gravel. His hand works in a rhythm that matches mine, the muscles in his forearm tensing with each deliberate stroke.
“It's not enough,” I breathe, adding a second finger, arching my back so he can see exactly what I'm doing to myself. “I need more.”
His voice drops an octave, rough with need. “The detachable one.” My fingers slip free, glistening in the steam as I reach for the smaller showerhead wand. I press the button, and it hums to life against my palm—a vibration that promises relief from the ache building between my thighs. His eyes follow every movement, his hand never stopping its rhythm as I position the pulsing water where I need it most.
The first pulse of water is almost too much, a sharp jolt that leaves me clinging to the tile with one slick palm, the other hand guiding the wand wherever I want it. The hum reverberates through my core, and my knees nearly buckle. Gage’s breath breaks ragged across the glass. He looks like he’s barely restraining himself from crossing the space, but he keeps his place, hand working himself slow and tight, every muscle in his arms straining with the effort.
I part my thighs wider, letting the water fall where I want it most, and the pleasure is immediate, raw, not gentle at all. I ride the wave, arching my hips to chase it, letting myself make noise because I want him to hear it. The air fills with the wet, rhythmic slap of water and the battered cadence of our breathing, both of us wound so tight that the slightest nudge might unravel everything.
His jaw grinds as he watches me through the glass. His hand moves faster, more desperately now, like if he can just match my pace, he can touch me from the other side.
“I want to watch you come.” Gage’s hand works faster, rougher. His eyes never leave me, and the way he watches—like he’s mapping my every shiver onto his own skin—ignites something reckless inside me.
I let my hips rock into the water, arching shamelessly, and I give myself over to it completely.
“Gage,” I moan.
His eyes narrow, hungry, dangerous. I don't think I've ever been so thoroughly devoured by a gaze alone.
The wand is relentless, and the pleasure barrels through me, sharp and insistent, building with a violence that makes my toes curl and my vision white at the edges. I press the wand harder, chasing the orgasm until it rips through me—loud, messy, uncontained.
My thighs tremble. The tile threatens to slip out from under me, but I ride it until the end, surfacing with a gasp that feels like the first breath after a long submersion.
Through the glass, Gage’s eyes have gone dark and wild. His grip falters, and he grunts, low and guttural, head dropping forward as he comes all over his stomach.
For a single heartbeat, there’s nothing but the sound of the water and our breathing, the echo of what we just shared hanging heavy between us.
Then Gage moves.
Two long strides, the glass door wrenched open, his hand sinking into the back of my hair as his mouth claims mine. The kiss is urgent and deep, all the restraint of the last few minutes burning off in one searing rush. I make a small sound against his lips, fingers curling into his shoulders as the world narrows to the press of his body and the taste of him.
A sharp knock cuts through the haze.
“Gage,” Bishop’s voice snaps from the other side of the door. “Why don’t you ever answer your fucking phone?”
The spell shatters instantly.
Gage pulls back, forehead resting against mine for half a second longer than necessary before he exhales and places a chaste kiss on the corner of my mouth.
He steps out of the shower and hollers, “I’m in the fucking shower, man. Give me a minute.”
I blink, heart racing, heat still thrumming through me as reality snaps back into place.
“I’ve been calling you up all morning,” Bishop continues. “Coco called a meeting. Get your ass out of the shower. Let’s go.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Gage grumbles, holding out a towel to me. “Here, Bell, let me hop in there and rinse off.”
I take the towel and step out of the shower, my legs feeling unsteady from pleasure.
I catch his eye once more as I move toward the other door of his Jack-and-Jill bathroom, my skin still flushed pink and radiating heat. The towel clings damply to my curves as a droplet of water traces down my collarbone. His gaze follows it, hungry and possessive, the corner of his mouth lifting in that half-smile that promises we're far from done.
I can’t fucking wait.
37
BELLAMY
“I’m sorry,”he says from underneath the spray.
