Callan pushed open the door and flipped on the dim overhead light.
“We should probably clean up before we meet our guests tomorrow.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Guests.”
“Yeah.” He gave a crooked smile. “That’s what we’re calling them now.”
Something about the way he said it—casual, almost normal, like we were hosting dinner and not taking in strangers at the end of the world—loosened a knot in my chest.
The locker room sat quiet around us; metal lockers lined the walls, some still hanging open with jackets and name tags that belonged to people who would never come back for them. I tried not to look too closely. The tiled floor echoed softly as we moved toward the back.
Steam filled the space a few minutes later as the hot water kicked in. For a long moment, we simply stood in separate stalls, letting the warmth do the work. The salt, the grime, the smell of fish—all of it sluicing off and swirling down the drain. I tipped my head back under the spray and closed my eyes and relaxed.
The water drummed against the tiles, and steam curled thickly through the dim light.
And for a few minutes, the world shrank down to something small enough to bear.
I kept my eyes closed, head tipped back, letting the water massage my eyelids and rinse the weight of the day off. My body hurt in a deep, wrung-out way that came from hauling equipment and wrangling predators all afternoon.
But underneath the exhaustion, something else had beenbuilding since the moment Callan lifted me onto that couch, since his fingers made me come apart while he watched like I belonged to him.
I heard his stall door open, quiet. My pulse kicked hard as water kept pouring over me, but the shift in the air hit first—cooler for a second, hotter as he stepped into my stall without a word. Naked, water already streaming down the hard lines of his chest, further down.
I opened my eyes.
Already hard, thick, and heavy against his thigh.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak, simply reached past me, turned the water hotter until it bordered on pain, as he crowded me back against the tile.
My breath caught as the cold porcelain hit my breasts at the same moment his heat pressed against my back.
“Hands on the wall, baby girl.” Low. Gravel-rough. Barely louder than the water.
I swallowed, placed both palms flat against the slick tile, fingers splayed wide. The position arched my back slightly and pushed my hips out toward him.
“Good.”
His hand came down on one cheek—sharp, sudden, the crack of wet skin echoing off the walls. I gasped, the sting through the heat.
“You’ve been so fucking good today.” His mouth hovered close to my ear now, breath hot against the wet skin of my neck. “Taking care of everything.”
Another smack. Harder. The heat of it sank deep into the muscle, spreading.
“But you’re still wound so tight, aren’t you?” His fingers dug into my hips, yanking me back until my ass pressedflush against his cock. He ground forward once, slow and deliberate, letting me register every thick inch. “I’m gonna fix that.”
I whimpered; I couldn’t stop it.
He reached around, cupped one breast roughly, pinching the nipple until I arched higher against the tile. His other hand slid between my thighs, fingers parting me without preamble. I’d been soaked long before the shower.
“Fuck, listen to that,” he muttered against my ear, pushing two fingers deep inside. “So wet for me, so ready when I tell you what to do.”
He pumped once, twice—rough, deliberate—pulled out and replaced his fingers with the blunt head of his cock; he didn’t ease in.
He slammed forward in one brutal stroke.
I cried out; the sensation was so good my vision blurred at the edges. He filled me completely, bottoming out with a grunt that vibrated through my body.