Five minutes, he said.
I count the seconds in my head, but not because I’m impatient. Because I’m aware. Of the time. Of the way the steam curls around my ankles. Of the fact that somewhere on the other side of this door is a man who has been nothing but kind, careful, clear—and who is about to step in here because I asked him to.
That thought settles low in my chest, heavy and warm, like the first sip of whiskey on a cold night.
I straighten, rolling my shoulders back, and let the water keep falling.
The door creaks open, Tom steps in, and the air shifts. The steam parts for him like a curtain, clinging to the broad line of his shoulders, the dark hair dusted with silver at his temples. He’s still dressed—just his trousers, unbuttoned at the top, the waistband slung low enough to tease the sharp V of his hips. His chest is bare, the steam beading on his skin, tracing the lines of muscle that say he’s a man who works with his body, not just in a gym.
His eyes find mine immediately. Blue. Too blue. The kind of blue that makes you forget you were ever cold.
“You good?” His voice is rough.
I nod, because words feel like too much right now. The water slides down my body, over the swell of my breasts, the soft curve of my stomach, the dark curls between my thighs. I don’t cover myself. I don’t turn away.
His gaze follows the path of the water, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing the shape of me. When his eyesmeet mine again, there’s no question in them. Just heat. Just hunger.
“You sure?” he asks, and this time, it’s not about consent. It’s about need. His. Mine. The way his fingers flex at his sides like he’s already imagining where to put his hands first.
I reach for him.
Not with my body—not yet. With my voice.
“Get in here, Tom,” I say, and it’s not a request. It’s a dare. A promise.
He doesn’t hesitate.
The trousers drop. His boxers follow, and then he’s naked, stepping under the water with me, the spray catching the hard lines of his body, the thick length of his cock already half-hard, flushed dark at the tip. My mouth goes dry.
“Fuck,” he breathes, and it’s not clear if he’s talking to me or himself. His hands come up, but he doesn’t touch me. Not yet. He braces them against the tile on either side of my head, caging me in without trapping me. The water runs between us, slick and hot, turning his skin to something glossy, something edible.
“I wasn’t sure you’d actually—” He swallows. “That you’d may have changed your—”
I cut him off with a look. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
His laugh is a low, rough thing, more exhale than sound. “Yeah. You are.”
I reach out then, my fingers trailing down his chest, over the light dusting of hair, the ridged planes of his stomach. His breath hitches when I wrap my hand around his cock, still thickening under my touch.
“You’re hard,” I murmur, because stating the obvious has never felt so necessary. His skin is velvet over steel, the vein along the underside pulsing against my palm.
“Fuck, Chloe,” he groans, his head dropping forward, water dripping from his hair onto my shoulder. “You’ve got no idea what you do to me.”
I stroke him once, slow, from root to tip, and his hips jerk forward like he can’t help it. “I think I’ve got some idea.”
His hand snaps out, gripping my wrist—not to stop me, but to guide me. His fingers are calloused, chef’s hands, and the contrast of rough skin against the slick heat of my own makes my breath stutter.
“Let’s see what I do to you,” he growls, his free hand sliding between my thighs. His fingers find me easily, parting my lips. I’m swollen, the first brush of his fingertips against my clit sending a jolt through me that has my knees threatening to buckle.
“Tom—” His name comes out like a warning, but he doesn’t listen.
“Shh,” he murmurs, his mouth finding the shell of my ear, his teeth grazing the lobe. “Let me.”
And then his fingers are inside me, two of them, curling up in a way that makes my back arch off the tile. The water pounds down on us, mixing with the sounds we’re making.
“You’re so ready for me,” he groans, his thumb circling my clit in tight, relentless loops. “Fuck, Chloe. Take what you need from me.” His fingers press deeper, and I gasp, the nails from my free hand digging into his shoulders.
The word sends a shameful thrill through me. I should be embarrassed. I should care. But all I can focus on is theway his cock twitches in my grip, the way his breath hitches when I squeeze just a little tighter.
