The vibration of his groan against my core .
Then his fingers—two, then three—curling inside while his lips sucked harder.
The stretch.
The burn turning to liquid heat.
My thighs shaking.
My back arching off the mattress.
The scream I couldn’t hold back when I came—hard, shattering, soaking his face and the sheets.
The thrusts—slow at first, letting me feel every inch dragging out and sliding back in.
Faster.
Harder.
Deeper.
I pressed my palms to the tile.
Let the water pound against my back.
I didn’t regret it.
Not one second.
He was brutal. Possessive. Cruel more often than not.
But last night he’d been something else.
Hungry. Focused. Almost reverent.
He’d made my first time unforgettable—just like he promised.
And the memory of it—of him inside me, of the way my body had opened for him, of the pleasure that had drowned out every fear and humiliation—burned brighter than any suffering he had ever imposed.
I soaped my skin slowly. Washed away sweat. Traces of him.
The faint stickiness between my thighs.
But I couldn’t wash away the ache.
The soreness.
The quiet, dangerous satisfaction.
I shut off the water and stepped out of the shower, skin still flushed from the heat and the echo of everything that had happened since last night.
Steam clung to the mirror in thick, curling waves, blurring my reflection into something less like myself.
For a moment, I didn’t recognize the woman staring back at me.
Hair damp. Eyes slightly shadowed. Lips still faintly swollen from sleep... and from him.
I looked away first.
