They lay there for long minutes—sweaty, breathless—his hand stroking lazy circles on her back. The quiet between them felt full, complete. No walls left. Just them.
Eventually he stirred. “Shower?”
She smiled against his chest, nodding.
They stumbled into the bathroom. He tested the water temperature with his palm, then stepped under the spray and tugged her in after him. Warm water hit her shoulders like a sigh; steam rose in lazy spirals. He moved behind her, chest to her back, arms encircling her waist, letting the stream pour over them both until their skin flushed pink.
“Still okay?” he asked, lips grazing the shell of her ear.
“More than okay,” she whispered, tilting her head so he could kiss the side of her neck.
His hands began a slow exploration under the water—just skin on skin. Palms glided flat over her stomach, tracing the dip of her waist, then rose to cup her breasts with gentle pressure. His thumbs brushed lazy arcs over her nipples, coaxing them to peaks as the spray cascaded down. Her breath hitched; her head tipped back against his shoulder.
He pressed a kiss to the wet curve of her neck. “You feel so good like this,” he murmured, voice low and rough. One hand drifted lower, fingers splaying over her hip, then sliding between her thighs—not urgent, just exploratory, parting her gently so the water could run directly over her most sensitive skin. She arched slightly into his touch, a soft sound escaping as his fingers circled slowly, teasing without pushing deeper.
He hugged her tighter—arms banding around her ribs, pulling her flush against him so she could feel every hard inch of him pressed to her back. His chin rested on her shoulder, breath warm on her ear. “Just let me hold you for a minute,” he whispered. “No rush.”
They stayed like that, bodies aligned under the relentless stream, his embrace steady and grounding, her hands covering his where they rested low on her belly. The water kept falling, turning everything slick and heated.
After a long, quiet moment, he eased back just enough to look at her over her shoulder, water streaming down his face.
He reached for the body wash—unscented, simple—andsqueezed a generous amount into his palms. He rubbed them together until foam bloomed, then started at her neck: thumbs pressing gently into the base of her skull, working in small, firm circles that made her eyelids flutter. Down her shoulders—palms gliding over collarbones, along the tops of her arms, fingers interlacing with hers under the water so he could wash between them, one digit at a time.
“You carry so much here,” he murmured, kneading the tight muscles along her upper back. “Let it go for me.”
She exhaled shakily, leaning into his touch. His hands travelled lower—slow sweeps across her shoulder blades, tracing the gentle dip of her spine, thumbs following the twin lines of muscle that flanked it. When he reached her lower back he pressed harder, easing the deep ache she hadn’t acknowledged, then slid around to her sides, fingers splaying over her ribs like he was memorizing every curve.
He knelt behind her—water streaming over his shoulders—and soaped her hips, thumbs digging into the soft flesh just above her tailbone. Down the outside of her thighs, then the insides—slow, reverent glides that made her breath catch every time his knuckles brushed higher. He lifted one of her feet, washed the sole, the arch, between each toe, then the other—his touch careful, almost worshipful.
When he stood again, he turned her gently to face him. More foam in his palms, he started at her throat—fingers sliding along her pulse points—then down to her chest. He cupped her breasts fully, lifting them slightly, thumbs sweeping over the undersides before circling her nipples in teasing loops until they drew tight and aching. He didn’t pinch, didn’t tug—just teased with feather-light passes that left her trembling.
Lower still: flat palms over her stomach, tracing the faint lines where muscle met softness. Then between her thighs—careful, thorough. He parted her gently with two fingers, washing every fold, every crease, the pad of his thumb brushing her clit just once—enough to make her gasp and grip his biceps.
“Lucas…” Her voice was needy.
He kissed her temple. “Almost done.”
He rinsed her slowly—hands following the water, making sure every trace of soap disappeared—then stepped back so she could return the favour.
Mia took the bottle, poured soap into her palms, and began the same careful worship on him. When she knelt and wrapped both soapy hands around his cock, stroking from base to tip in long, slippery pulls, he groaned, head tipping back against the tile, hips rocking once into her grip.
She rinsed him clean then stood.
Without a word, Lucas gently turned her shoulders so she faced the tile, his lips finding the wet curve of her neck in a slow, lingering kiss. She sighed softly, leaning back into him, pressing her body flush against his chest, her hips tilting instinctively in silent invitation. He felt the shift—the way she arched just enough, the subtle push of her ass against his hardness—and understood exactly what she wanted.
One hand slid around to splay low on her stomach, steadying her; the other guided his cock, rubbing the head along her slick entrance—once, twice—coating himself in her wetness—then he pushed in slow and deep from behind. They both moaned at the stretch, the perfect, full fit as he sank all the way inside her.
He stilled for a heartbeat—buried to the hilt, forehead resting between her shoulder blades, breathing her in—then began to move. Long, rolling thrusts that dragged against every sensitive spot inside her, the angle letting him hit deep with every stroke. Water sluiced over their joined bodies, slicking the rhythm. One arm banded firmly around her waist, holding her steady against the tile; the other slid down her stomach, fingers finding her clit—rubbing in tight, steady circles that matched the deep push and pull of his hips.
Her breaths turned ragged—sharp little gasps every time he bottomed out. “Yes—right there—”
He angled his hips just a fraction more, driving deeper, harder, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing softly under the spray. His fingers sped up—relentless, perfect pressure on her swollen clit. He could feel her starting to tighten around him, her body gripping him like she never wanted to let go.
“Lucas—close—”
“Come for me, Mia—let me feel you come around me.”
The words tipped her over. She shattered—walls clamping down hard around him, a broken cry bouncing off the tiles as the orgasm ripped through her, thighs shaking, back arching sharply against his chest. He thrust twice more—deep, erratic—then followed with a guttural groan, hips locking flush against her ass as he spilled inside her, body shuddering with the force of it.
