She looks up sharply. “Vin, no. I’m not getting undressed. I have things to do.”
I rake my gaze down her body, pausing on her cream shirt now limp and clinging to her breasts thanks to the steam. I let my silence make my point for me.
She glances away. “I mean it.”
“Your choice.”
I grip her wrists and pull her to stand then into the shower with me, clothes and all.
She shrieks as the warm water saturates her clothes and pushes against me, trying to get out. I pin her against me with one arm, her back to my chest, and wait until she goes still. Finally, she tips her head back against my shoulder and scowls up at me, water running in rivulets down her face and into her collar.
The look on her face would be funny if I were capable of finding anything funny right now.
I push the soap into her hand without a word.
She turns and starts slowly, tentatively, running the bar over my chest with careful, measured movements. I turn away from her, facing the tile wall, bracing my palms against the marble. I hang my head and let the water pour over my back.
She pauses behind me. I know she’s deciding whether she should stay and continue or leave. I’d let her. She knows that.
But she doesn’t leave. I knew she wouldn’t.
When she starts washing my back, her movements are more intentional, the movement of the soap across my back thorough and efficient. I close my eyes and the first real exhalation I’ve managed in days feels like something finally coming loose.
I don’t know how long she washes me. Long enough that the worst of everything that has been sitting in my chest these past weeks begins to soften.
When she finishes, she sets the soap on the ledge. Her fingertips trace softly down my back, a gesture so familiar it almost breaks me .
She starts to step out. I snatch her wrist.
“On your knees.”
“Vin—”
I press her down to the floor of the shower, the water hitting her full in the face, then grip her jaw and tilt her face up to mine. Her eyes are wide, blinking rapidly as water streams over her lashes,her shirt soaked through and clinging to her tits. She’s so fucking beautiful it makes me ache.
“Open.”
She does as she’s told, her mouth dropping open, and I guide my cock into the back of her throat and hold it there until she gags.
“Good girl.”
I withdraw enough to let her breathe, then grip her head with both hands and skull fuck her hard and fast. Her hands are scrabbling over my thighs and her grunts are broken into a staccato pattern as my cock cuts off her airway.
I yank her head back, forcing her to look at me as the water pours onto her face making her gasp and cough. “Tell me you fucking love this.”
“I love this, Sir.” It comes out broken and garbled as the water hits her in the face.
“Tell me you love worshiping my cock.”
“I—love—your cock—Sir.”
“I know you do.”
I grip her head and shove my cock into her throat until she chokes, then pull out slowly as she heaves, her lips wrapped around my cock like she doesn’t want to let go.
Shoving back in, I fuck her mouth, groaning with each thrust. “My fucking cock whore.” She moans in response, her mouth fullof my cock. “My fucking cum sucking slut.” Her nails dig into my thighs, and grip her hair, and fuck her.
Fast. Hard. Merciless.
