“Take it.” His voice hard. “Every fucking inch, Sloane.”
With no time to adjust, he started moving—hard, deep strokes, the slap of skin on skin obscene under the roar of the water. One hand wrapped around my throat, keeping my head tilted back so his mouth stayed right at my ear.
“Who do you belong to, baby girl?”
“You,” I gasped. “Callan—”
“Louder.”
“You. Callan—fuck—”
He rewarded me with a stroke so deep my knees buckled; he caught me instantly, arm banding across my stomach, holding me up while he drove harder. Faster. The angle turned mercilessly—every thrust dragging over that spotinside me that made my toes curl against the wet tile.
His free hand slid down, fingers finding my clit and rubbing tight circles.
“Come on my cock,” he ordered. “Right fucking now. Show me how much you need this, baby girl.”
I shattered.
The orgasm tore through me, blinding me. My walls clenched around him and he groaned, low and guttural, his hips jerking for a second. My legs shook, and I screamed his name, pulsing around him, so wet I could feel it running down my inner thighs even with the shower pouring over us.
He didn’t stop.
He fucked me through every wave—harder. His rhythm turned feral, hips surging forward in short, punishing strokes. His hand on my throat tightened enough to make my head swim in the best possible way.
“Gonna fill you up,” he rasped. “I’m going to mark you so deep you’ll still ache tomorrow when we’re standing there pretending to be civilized.”
I clenched around him again as aftershocks ripped through me one after another—and that broke him.
He buried himself to the hilt with a ragged, broken sound, cock pulsing as he came hard, flooding me with heat that seemed to go on and on. Pulse after thick pulse until I overflowed, dripping down my thighs, mixing with the water swirling at our feet.
He stayed inside me for long seconds, breathing ragged against my neck, hips still twitching with the last of it, as he eased out slowly—careful now, so careful—and turned me in his arms.
Pulled me against his chest.
The water still ran hot over both of us.
“Are you okay, baby?” Softer now, rough around the edges, but tender underneath.
I nodded against his shoulder.
“Better than okay.”
He kissed my forehead, moved to my mouth—slow, deep, possessive in a way that had everything to do with ownership.
“Get clean,” he murmured against my lips. “I’m taking you to bed, and you’re not leaving it until morning.”
He reached for the soap.
Washed me himself. Those same hands that had wrecked me slid over every inch of my body with a gentleness that made my chest ache more than anything else he’d done. Down my arms, and across my stomach, between my thighs where he’d just been, his touch careful and thorough, cleaning what he’d left behind like tending to something that belonged to him.
When we finally stepped out, dripping, wrapped in towels that smelled like industrial laundry detergent, he lifted me as if I weighed nothing and carried me toward the office turned bedroom.
I pressed my face into his neck; his pulse beat steadily against my lips.
No more distance, no more pretending either of us could do this alone.
Just us.