I let out a sob, or maybe a laugh. “Fuck, Jo, just do it.”
He ignored me, kept working, kept building, never quite giving me what I needed. Then, all at once, the water turned and hit me full-on—hot, relentless, soaking my hair and shoulders, running in rivers down my chest and legs.
The shock of it stole my breath, and while I sputtered, Jo pressed in, his cock nudging at my hole. He spat on it, rubbed the head around, then drove forward in a single, smooth thrust.
I screamed, not from pain, but from relief.
He fucked me slow at first, the kind of pace that made time stretch out, each stroke deliberate and deep. He kept a hand on my shoulder, using it for leverage, and the other alternated between pinching my nipples, stroking my cock, or just gripping my throat to keep my head in place.
“Say it,” he panted, voice hoarse.
“Say what?”
“That you want it. That you want me.”
I couldn’t find my voice. All I could do was whimper.
He stopped, buried to the hilt, and waited.
“I want you,” I said, so quiet I barely heard it myself.
He slammed in, twice as hard.
“Again,” he demanded.
“I want you.”
“Louder.”
“I want you, Jo, fuck, I want you.”
He resumed, faster this time. The sounds were filthy—skin on skin, the slap of his hips, the ragged moans I couldn’t stop. The air was thick with steam and the smell of sweat and sex.
I lost track of time. Could have been minutes, could have been years.
When he finally reached around and stroked my cock, it took everything in me not to come on the spot. He sensed it, slowed down, and then thrust into me one more time before stopping altogether.
“Not yet,” he said, voice steel.
I panted, my hands curling into fists as strained to not come, to obey his words.
I don’t know how long he fucked me for—minutes, hours, some kind of geological epoch where the only things that mattered were Jo’s cock, Jo’s voice, and the ache in my body as it tried to contain both.
At some point, the world collapsed to steam and muscle and the low, relentless slap of skin on skin.
He held off longer than any sane person should. By the time he started to lose control, I was half-delirious, forehead pressed to the tile, knees shaking, my own dick so hard it felt like it might tear off.
Then, finally, Jo slammed in and stilled. The guttural sound he made wasn’t language; it was pure animal, vibrating down my spine. I felt him pulse inside me, hot and bright, and it sent me over the fucking edge.
He didn’t even have to touch me. He just leaned in, teeth at my ear, and said, “Come for me, Bodean.”
I did.
I screamed.
I’d never come that hard in my life—spattered the wall, the shower, my own stomach. My legs buckled and Jo caught me, arms under my shoulders, keeping me from crumpling to the floor.
He stayed inside me, one arm holding me up, the other sliding up to unlock the cuffs and peel off the blindfold. The world hit me all at once—white tile, bright light, the clouds of steam. My body trembled so hard my teeth chattered.
