I grip her arms and lift her effortlessly off the bed, her gasp caught between us as I crush my mouth to hers. I kiss her like a man who’s been denied too long—hungry, hard, relentless.
“Not yet,” I breathe against her lips, voice frayed with need. “Not like this.”
I guide her toward the bathroom, every step strung tight with tension. The air between us crackles. Thick with want, heavy with everything unsaid. Her fingers curl around mine like she’s fully aware and consenting of the fact that I’m about to ruin her—in the best possible way.
“Puts a whole new spin on the termbridal shower, huh?” she teases, her voice soft, eyes lit like embers.
I chuckle, already reaching for the faucet. Hot water spills from the tap, steam rising fast and curling around us like smoke. “I’m a filthy man,” I mutter, casting her a wicked grin. “Allow me to clean up before I do very, very dirty things to you, wife.”
She steps closer, skin bare and glowing in the warm light. “I’ve never showered with a man before,” she says, almost like a confession. But there’s nothing shy in her tone.
I open the glass door and hold it for her, letting my eyes drink in every inch. “Then I’m honored to be your first.”
She walks past me, brushing against my chest. And just like that, we disappear into the steam—two strangers, one night, and no turning back.
She’s taking me in now, fully, observing the ink that marks my body. “You don’t like it? My art?”
She shakes her head. “I’ve just never seen anything like it.” She kisses my chest, the highest she can reach. “It’s beautiful.”
The water spills over her shoulders, soaking her hair, tracing every curve like it’s worshipping her the way I am.
She stands still, eyes locked on mine, lips parted, chest rising and falling with anticipation. I grab the showerhead and tilt it down, letting the stream drench her slowly—neck, collarbone, the swell of her breasts. She gasps as the water hits, her skin going slick, glowing.
“Look at you, Americana” I murmur, dragging the nozzle lower, watching the spray coat her stomach, her thighs. “You’re pure fucking art when you’re wet.”
I set the showerhead back and drop to my knees without a word.
Her breath catches.
I press a kiss to her hipbone, then another, lower. My hands slide behind her thighs, anchoring her to me.
“Now,” I glance up, voice gravelly. “Back to the question I asked you earlier.”
She opens her mouth to speak, but I don’t give her the chance. My tongue finds her clit—right where she’s aching. Her head tips back, a sharp gasp tearing from her throat as her hands clutch my shoulders.
“Tell me,” I growl between her thighs, between strokes and licks, slow, reverent laps of her wetness. “Something about you nobody else knows.”
She moans, her fingers tangling in my hair, hips trembling under my grip. I drag my tongue over her again and she gasps like I’ve stolen every thought from her mind.
Her head drops back against the tile, breath shallow, voice barely a whisper. “I used to write myself love letters, pretending they were from someone who loved me.”
I hum against her, savoring the confession, the way she’s unraveling just for me.
“Say more,” I murmur, mouth pressed to her heat. “And don’t leave anything out.”
“Fuck!” she cries, her voice echoing off the tile, hands clutching at my shoulders like she’s not sure if she wants to pull me closer or push me away.
“We’ll get to that, too,” I smirk against her, then tighten my grip around the curve of her ass, pulling her closer as I dive back in—tongue relentless, merciless, devoted.
She’s panting now, teetering on the edge.
“Tell me about the first time you got fucked,” I rasp, voice rough and thick with lust, my mouth brushing over her with every word. “I want to hear it from your lips while mine are on you.”
“My twenty-first—shit!” she gasps, hips jerking against my mouth.
“Mmm hmm,” I hum into her, the vibration making her cry out again.
She claws at my shoulders, breath ragged. “How do you expect me to talk when your tongue is on me like this?”