A twitch strikes through my leg. It reaches my toes—and they curl and flex against the intrusion.
His thumb slides over my clit, moving in time with the stroke of his fingers inside of me, that same firm pressure—
I shut my eyes on him, on the forests, on the hunger.
But the moment I do, another growl crawls up his throat, and I cry out from the pain on my cheekbone.
My eyes snap open—just as Samick’s bite softens on me.
But he doesn’t retreat.
He keeps his teeth there, sharp on my cheekbone, ready to bite and draw blood if I shut my eyes again.
It’s a promise.
A warning.
I feel the weight of it as he slowly turns his face back until he’s nose-to-nose with me.
Trails of water curve over his cheekbones, catch on his lashes, glisten his full lips—
And his stare hooks mine.
It holds.
It holds as the pressure rises, and my heart starts skipping beats, and my breaths start pinning to my chest, and so my exhales are grunts muffled by his palms, and my sight starts to dance with glaring lights, and—
My fingernails tear at his wrist.
My head throws back into the pipe.
The crack is hard, but I don’t feel a fucking thing through the crescendo that’s surging through me.
Samick’s hand doesn’t follow my mouth. It drags down to the cusp of my chin as the shout arches through me. Like he wants,needs, to hear it.
His grip firms, fingertips digging into me as the shout tempers into a moan, and the twitches that assault me are softening.
Slowly, too slowly, his fingers slip out of me. His thumb grazes my clit like a farewell kiss that shudders me.
And he guides his hand up along my body, over my breasts, through the steady rain of the shower, all the way up to my face.
He cups my cheeks with both hands and considers me.
I’m coming down from the high.
And as I do, I blink my dark, teary gaze on him.
My mouth twists.
But Samick drops his gaze to my lips, then brushes his fingertips over them.
Still, there’s something detached about him. The way he holds my face in his hand, the curious touch of my lips, even his body pushing harder against mine—there’s something clinical in it.
The breath shudders out of me, slick with restrained tears. I turn my cheek to him-an opening he takes.
His mouth finds my neck, my jawline, and travels with the whisper of a kiss that never quite connects.
I stare at the bench. Where our bags are. Where the torch rests. The flames flicker over the walls, casting shadows up to the ceiling.
