My jaw is wet. My mouth tastes like her. My cock is so hard against my zipper that the pressure is its own specific pain.
I strip my shirt over my head. Her eyes drop to my chest. To the scars. To the muscle that years of club work have carved across my shoulders and arms and the flat plane of my abdomen. She watches me the way I watched her. Cataloging. Memorizing. Wanting.
I unbuckle my belt. The metal clinks in the steam. Drop my jeans and step out of them. Her gaze tracks down my body and landson my cock, thick and hard and straining, and her lips part. Her exhale is audible.
I do not give her time to think about it.
I walk her backward into the shower.
The hot water hits her back first and she gasps. Not from the heat. From the transition. Cool bathroom air to hot water against skin that is already oversensitized, every nerve ending raw and exposed from what I did to her at the sink. Steam rises between us. The shower stall is small. Tile walls on three sides. My body on the fourth.
She has nowhere to go that is not me.
I press her against the tile. One forearm flat on the wall beside her head. My other hand on her hip, turning her. She turns. Braces both palms against the tile. Drops her head between her arms. Water runs down her spine, tracing the channel between her shoulder blades, pooling in the small of her back before cascading over the curve of her ass.
I line myself up. The thick head of my cock presses against her soaking wet pussy and she is so wet, so swollen, so ready that the pressure alone makes her grind back against me.
“Lucia.”
She looks back at me over her shoulder. Wet curls plastered to her face. Eyes so wide they are almost all pupil. Her lips are swollen from biting down on her own sounds and she is the most devastating thing I have ever seen.
“Do not look away from me.”
She nods.
I push inside her.
The first inch and she gasps against my palm. The stretch of it. I am not small and she is tight and wet and swollen from the orgasm I gave her at the sink, and every fraction of an inch I push deeper makes her walls ripple and clench around me like her body is trying to pull me in and push me out at the same time.
I do not stop.
Deep. One continuous stroke that does not end until I am buried to the hilt, until her ass is flush against my hips and every inch of me is surrounded by tight, wet, clenching heat that grips me so hard my vision whites at the edges. The water runs down both of us. Steam curls between our bodies. She arches. Her palms slip against the wet tile. Her mouth opens on a silent scream and I clamp my hand over it before the sound can escape.
I hold myself there. All the way inside her. Not moving. Letting her feel the full weight and width and depth of me occupying her body. Her walls pulse around my cock in involuntary contractions and each one sends a bolt of raw sensation up my spine.
“Quiet.” Against the shell of her ear. My voice is wrecked. “Remember.”
She nods against my palm. Her breath is hot and ragged against my fingers. The shape of her moan presses into my hand like a secret she is trusting me to keep.
I withdraw. Slow. Dragging against every nerve inside her until she whimpers into my palm. Then I push back in with the same deliberate, measured pace. Not punishing. Not gentle. Every stroke calibrated to give her the full length of me, to makeher feel the stretch and the fullness and the specific angle I have chosen because I know, the way I know surgical anatomy, exactly which spot inside her will make her fall apart.
She pushes back against me. Greedy. Her hips rolling to meet my thrusts, trying to speed up the rhythm I have set.
I pin her hip with my free hand. Hold her still.
“My pace. Not yours.”
A sound between a growl and a sob against my palm.
I keep the rhythm I set. Slow enough that she can feel every inch of me entering and retreating. Fast enough that her grip on the tile is failing. The water runs between us, making everything slick, the friction reduced to pure sensation, the wet sounds of our bodies meeting drowned by the shower. Her inner walls grip me on every outstroke, clenching, pulling, trying to keep me inside, and the pressure is so good it takes every ounce of control I have not to lose the rhythm and bury myself in her until neither of us can think.
I drop my hand from her mouth to her throat. Not squeezing. Holding. My palm against her pulse. Her heartbeat hammering against my fingers like a caged thing.
“I spent five years with a closed door.” My mouth is against the back of her neck. My hips do not stop moving. “Telling myself I did not deserve this. That the part of me that could want a family, could build something, could hold a child without losing her, was dead.”
She reaches back with one hand and grabs my hip. Nails in my skin. Pulling me deeper.
“I am not closing that door anymore.”