His hand slides up, tracing the sweat-slick line of my spine, pressing me tighter to him, like close isn’t close enough. My blouse is half open, sticking to my skin, and he doesn’t rip it off; he peels it aside, slow, deliberate, lips never leaving mine. It’s maddening, torturous, perfect.
“Sticky,” he mutters against my mouth. “Too fucking sticky.” His thumb drags across the swell of my breast, and I shudder, biting his lip.
The shower’s right there, water misting white through the steam, and he moves us toward it. Still carrying me, still kissing me like his life depends on it.
The spray hits my shoulders, hot, pouring over both of us, soaking my blouse until it clings transparent to my chest. He curses, low and rough, and kisses me harder, water dripping off his jaw, plastering his shirt to his body.
I’m drowning in sensation—the taste of him, the heat of his hands gripping everywhere, the wet cling of fabric sticking us together. Every drag of his mouth is more desperate, more consuming.
And it hits me—sometimes it’s not the sex that’s hot. It’s this. The way he holds me like I’m already his. The way he kisses me like I’m the last thing he’ll ever get.
Anton lowers me, planting my feet under the shower’s spray, water slamming my shoulders, my back, my blouse clinging tight to my lush breasts. I’m trembling—not from the cold, but from the fire raging inside, every nerve screaming for him. My handshit his chest, palms splaying over hot, carved muscle, his soaked shirt molding to every brutal line. I dig my fingers in, greedy, wanting to claw into him.
“Anton…” I gasp, a raw plea spilling out, my voice shaking with need.
“You’re trouble,malyshka,” He grabs my wrists, his heart pounding under my hands, a wild drumbeat matching mine. His mouth crashes into mine, brutal, wet, unrelenting, tongue thrusting deep, claiming every inch, stealing my breath until I’m nothing but need.
Water pours over us, sliding between our lips, mixing with his taste—musk, heat, danger—making me dizzy, my pussy clenching.
His hands drag down my arms, rough, deliberate, peeling my blouse open, buttons popping, exposing my lace bra, straps slipping, water streaming down my cleavage.
I should be shy, but I’m not. I want his hunger, his reverence, the danger in his touch.
“Too damn many clothes,” he says, voice gravel, fingers grazing my bra’s edge, teasing, not ripping, making me ache.
I yank his shirt up, heavy with water, and he lifts his arms, letting me strip it off, tossing it to the tiles with a wet slap. My pants follow next.
His chest—solid, scarred, slick—makes me moan, my fingers tracing the planes, his heat burning my palms. He hisses, like my touch is a blade, and I want more.
“Malyshka,”he says, voice rough, hands gripping my waist, yanking me flush against him, his cock hard, straining through his pants, grinding into my stomach. I gasp, head spinning, pussy dripping.
His mouth attacks my throat, teeth scraping my collarbone, biting the swell of my breast above the lace, making me whimper, “Oh, hell…”
He palms my ass, squeezing hard, pulling me tighter to grind against his cock, the friction brutal, making my hips buck, chasing him.
“You’re driving me insane,” he says, lips hot against my skin, hands roaming, mapping every curve like he’ll never get enough.
I’m gone, lost in him, no thoughts of danger or tomorrow—just his heat, his mouth, his hands tearing me apart.
He pulls back just long enough to glance up, breath ragged.
“I’m going to make you scream again,” he says, voice low, fingers sliding between my legs, teasing my clit through the lace. I gasp, hips bucking, and he pushes me back against the tile, water pounding my shoulders.
His fingers hook into my panties, tugging them down my thighs, slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring the way they stick to my skin.I step out of them, naked now aside from my bra, and he presses in, his clothed body against my bare one, the rough fabric of his pants scraping my thighs.
“Anton…” I pant, my hands fisting his hair, pulling him down for another kiss.
He claims my mouth, tongue thrusting deep, mimicking what his fingers are about to do. His hand slides between my thighs, fingers finding my clit, circling slow at first, then faster, rougher.
“Spread wider,” he says, voice dark, demanding, and I do, legs parting, my pussy exposed to him under the spray.
One finger slides inside me, then two, curling deep, finding that spot that has my eyes rolling back.
I cry out, “Ohhh,” my hips rocking, chasing his hand. His thumb presses my clit, grinding, and the sensation shoots through me, hot and relentless.
“You’re so wet for me,” he says, voice rough, fingers thrusting faster, the slick sounds echoing under the water. I moan, loud, my body clenching, and he adds a third finger, stretching me, making me gasp. “That’s it, take it.”
I’m panting, “Anton, please,” my voice breaking, hips bucking against his hand. He kisses me again, tongue pushing into my mouth, deep, demanding, in rhythm with his fingers. The dual invasion—his tongue, his fingers—has me trembling, my pussy pulsing, close to the edge.
