The bathroom fills with steam while I strip off his shirt. Thatcher's already in the shower when I step under the spray, water cascading over both of us.
"This is ridiculously luxurious," I say, tipping my head back. "Military housing should not have water pressure this good."
"Perks of being a captain." His hands slide into my hair, working shampoo through with surprising gentleness. "Close your eyes."
I do, letting him wash my hair with the same methodical care he applies to everything. Strong fingers massage my scalp, work the soap through, rinse it clean. When I open my eyes again, he's watching me with that focused intensity that makes my breath catch.
"Your turn," I say, reaching for the shampoo.
"I can wash my own hair."
"I know. But I want to."
He dips his head without argument. I work the shampoo through the short strands, feeling the tension in his shoulders start to ease under my touch. When I rinse it clean, he straightens and pulls me against him.
Water streams between us. His mouth finds mine, the kiss deepening from gentle to demanding in seconds. My back hits the tile wall, his body pressing me there, one hand sliding between my thighs.
"We don't have much time," I manage between kisses.
"I can work fast." His fingers find me already wet, circling my clit with deliberate pressure. "The question is whether you can be quiet."
"I can be—oh god—perfectly quiet."
"We'll see about that."
He drops to his knees, throws one of my legs over his shoulder, and puts his mouth exactly where his fingers were. I bite back a moan, one hand bracing against the wall, the other tangling in his hair.
Thorough doesn't begin to cover it. His tongue and lips and the edge of his teeth work me with the same precision he brings to mission planning. When I come, gasping his name despite my promise to stay quiet, he doesn't stop. He just gentles his touch and works me through the aftershocks until my legs shake.
He stands, kisses me hard enough that I taste myself on his tongue. "Still think you can be quiet?"
"Shut up and get inside me."
"Bossy." But he's already lifting me, positioning me against the wall, the tile cool against my back. He enters me in one smooth thrust and I gasp, head falling back as he fills me completely. The angle is different like this, deeper, and every nerve ending lights up.
I wrap my legs around his waist, nails digging into his shoulders as he withdraws and drives back in. The rhythm hesets is hard and fast, exactly what I need, and I can't hold back the sounds building in my throat. Water streams between us, making everything slick and hot and perfect.
"God, you feel good." His voice is rough against my ear, one hand braced on the wall beside my head, the other gripping my hip hard enough to leave marks. "So fucking good."
I try to answer but all that comes out is a broken moan as he hits that spot inside me that makes my vision blur. My fingers dig into the muscle of his shoulders, feeling every flex and shift as he moves. Water runs down his face, drops catching in his lashes, and I pull him into a kiss that's more teeth than anything else.
His mouth finds my neck, teeth scraping sensitive skin while his hips drive forward with relentless precision. I'm already close again, wound tight from his mouth earlier, my body coiled and desperate. When his thumb finds my clit, circling with just the right pressure, I shatter.
The orgasm rips through me and I cry out his name, probably loud enough for the neighbors to hear, my body clenching around him. He doesn't stop, just keeps moving, prolonging it until I'm shaking and gasping against his shoulder.
"Gwen—" His rhythm breaks, becomes erratic, and then he's coming with a low groan, forehead pressed against mine, breathing hard. His hips still but he stays deep inside me, both of us trembling under the spray.
We stay like that for a long moment, just holding each other, water cascading over us. My heart pounds against my ribs. When he finally pulls out and sets me down carefully, his hands linger on my waist, making sure my legs will hold me.
"We're going to be late," I say eventually.
"Worth it." He sets me down carefully, makes sure my legs will hold me. "Though we should probably actually get clean now."
We manage it, barely, with only minimal distraction.
Back in the kitchen, Thatcher makes scrambled eggs while I toast bread. We eat standing at the counter, stealing kisses between bites, and I think about how normal this feels, how right.
By the time we're heading to the base hospital, we barely have time before Nox's scheduled arrival.
