She sighed, leaning into me.
I grabbed the soap—something expensive, scented like sandalwood and citrus—and lathered it between my hands. Then I started washing her.
Slowly.
Methodically.
I began at her neck, my fingers working the suds into her skin in gentle circles, thumbs pressing into the knots at the base of her skull. She tilted her head forward, a soft moan escaping her lips.
"Feel good?" I murmured.
"Mmm."
I moved lower, over her shoulders, down her arms, interlacing our fingers briefly before sliding back up. The soap made everything slick, my hands gliding effortlessly. I cupped her breasts, thumbs brushing her nipples until they hardened under my touch, her breath hitching.
But I didn't linger.
I turned her gently, facing me now, water streaming down her face. Her eyes were half-lidded, lips parted. I soaped her stomach, her hips, dipping lower to the curve where thigh met torso. My fingers spread the lather there, teasing the sensitive skin, feeling her tremble under my touch.
"Connor," she whispered.
"Shh," I said. "Let me do this."
I knelt then, water pounding against my back, and lifted one of her feet, resting it on my thigh. I washed it carefully—between her toes, the arch, the heel—massaging as I went. She braced a hand on my shoulder, her fingers digging in slightly.
I did the other foot, then moved up her calves, her knees, the backs of her thighs. My hands spread wider as I went, thumbs pressing into the muscle, fingers grazing the inner seams. She shifted, parting her legs just enough, and I took the invitation.
I soaped her inner thighs, inching higher, feeling the heat radiating from her core. My fingers brushed her folds—light, teasing—and she gasped, her hips canting forward.
I looked up at her, water dripping from my lashes. "You want more?"
"Yes," she breathed.
I spread her gently, my fingers sliding through her slickness—soap and arousal mixing. I circled her clit slowly, watching her face, the way her eyes fluttered shut, her mouth opening on a silent moan. Then I slipped a finger inside her, curling it just right, pumping slowly while my thumb worked her from the outside.
She was still sensitive from before, her body responding fast, clenching around me. I added a second finger, stretching her, my free hand gripping her thigh to steady her.
"Oh, God," she moaned, her hand fisting in my hair.
I didn't rush. I took my time, building her up again, feeling her tighten, her breaths coming shorter and sharper. When she came, it was with a cry that echoed off the marble, her body shuddering, knees buckling slightly.
I caught her, standing and pulling her against me, holding her through the aftershocks.
We stood like that under the water, her face buried in my neck, until her breathing evened out.
"Your turn," she said finally, a mischievous glint in her eye.
I shook my head. "This was for you."
She smiled, slow and wicked. "And this is for me, too."
She took the soap from my hand and lathered her palms, then started on my chest, her fingers tracing the lines of muscle. She washed me with the same care I'd given her—slow, thorough, her touch lingering in places that made my cock twitch.
When she knelt, water streaming over her, and took me in her hand, I nearly lost it right there.
She stroked me slowly, soapy and slick, her other hand cupping my balls gently. Then she leaned in, her mouth closing around the tip, tongue swirling.
"Fuck, Mila," I groaned, my hand tangling in her wet hair.
