37. Justin
JUSTIN
I’ve been watching her all night, the way her eyes flicker with mischief, the way her tongue darts out to wet her lips.
And now, I’ve got her right where I want her.
I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, my arms stretched out behind me, my cock already hard, begging for attention.
She sinks to her knees between my legs, her eyes locked on mine as she leans in, her breath hot against my skin.
Her nails dig into my thighs, before they scrape along them.
“Fuck, Rowan,” I groan, my hips bucking slightly as she leans in and teases the tip of my cock with her tongue. She takes me into her mouth, inch by inch, until I hit the back of her throat. She swallows around me, and my head tips back, a string of curses spilling from my lips.
She works me with her mouth, her hand wrapped around the base of my cock, stroking in rhythm with her tongue. She glances up at me, her eyes heavy with lust, her lips stretched around me. My fingers dig into the bedsheets as my breaths turn into short, rapid gasps and I near the edge.
Just as I’m about to blow my load down her throat, I emit a low growl before I pull back and lift her under the arms until she’s standing.
I guide her to the wall, force her arms above her head against the wall, and kick her thighs open with my foot.
She gasps as I push into her, my cock filling her with one swift stroke.
My ass slams against her ass relentlessly as I fuck her against the wall.
She moans, fingers searching for purchase against the wall. She lifts on her toes, as I edge into her deeper. Then the magic words spill out of her mouth.
“Harder, Justin. Deeper…”
I increase my pace, my cock hitting that sweet spot inside her that tells me she’s about to combust. I can feel her orgasm building with mine, my body tensing as pleasure coils deep in my groin.
“Come for me Ro,” I hiss. “I want to feel you come around my cock.”
My words push us both over the edge, and she screams my name as her orgasm crashes over her. I follow close behind, pumping faster, harder, chasing that high until I’ve spent every last drop of cum inside her.
My chest finds her back, and we stay against the wall, my cock buried deep inside her, our breaths coming hot and harsh and ragged.
I don’t know how many times I can take her like this and not grow numb to it.
Because every time her skin meets mine, it feels new—like my body hasn’t learned her yet, like it never will. Warm. Bare. Too close. Her breath skims along my chest, my throat, my jaw, leaving heat in its wake, and it wrecks me in a way that isn’t about hunger so much as need.
Her hands are everywhere, greedy and searching. Fingers digging into my thighs, my forearms, my shoulders, as if she’s trying to ground herself.
She presses into me, forehead to my collarbone, breathing me in.
I feel the hitch of it. There’s desperation in it, raw and unguarded.
The way she can’t quite settle, can’t quite get close enough.
Like proximity itself isn’t enough and she’s chasing something deeper, something that lives under the skin.
I slide my hands up her back, feel the shiver ripple through her, feel how responsive she is to the smallest touch. Water hums faintly in the background, steam beginning to creep into the room, fogging the edges of everything. The world narrowing. Softening.
“Come here,” I murmur, low and rough, more command than invitation.
She lifts her head, eyes dark, unreadable, and follows me without hesitation into the heat of the the waiting water.
Steam curls through the space, clinging to the glass, softening the clean lines of stone and steel until everything feels slightly unreal—like we’ve stepped out of the penthouse and into something sealed off from the rest of the world.
The noise of the water fills the room, constant and steady, drowning out everything else.
I reach past her and adjust the temperature without asking. Too hot at first. I dial it back until it’s right. I don’t need to look at her to know when it is.
She watches me while I do it. Bare-chested now, I catch her eyes flick over the faint scars on my skin, the ones I stopped noticing years ago. I move slowly, deliberately. Even here, especially here, I’m careful not to overwhelm her.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” I say.
She nods. That’s all she can manage right now. I don’t push for more.
I step under the spray first, letting the water slick down my shoulders, then turn and hold out my hand. She takes it immediately. No hesitation. When she steps into the heat with me, her breath catches—and it’s not the temperature that does it.
The water pounds against the tile, loud enough to erase the rest of the world.
I don’t touch her yet.
Instead, I stand there with her, close but not crowding, my presence steady at her back. She leans forward, palms braced against the cool glass, forehead resting there as she exhales. I can feel the tension in her body, coiled tight beneath her skin.
“Breathe,” I murmur, my mouth close to her ear.
She does. Slow. Controlled. Again.
Only then do I move.
My hands come to her arms first—light, grounding.
I rinse the shampoo from her hair, fingers careful as they work through the strands.
I don’t pull. I don’t rush. The intimacy of it hits me harder than anything else.
This—taking care of her like this, without expectation—feels more exposed than any touch meant to take.
Her eyes close.
The water runs down her spine. My palms follow, mapping her slowly, deliberately. When my hands pass over the scar on her leg, I feel her body tense beneath my touch.
I don’t stop.
I don’t change the way I touch her.
I treat it like any other part of her—because it is.
Her throat works. I feel the emotion before she says anything, feel it in the way her breath shifts, in the way her shoulders soften just a fraction.
I turn her gently then, one hand lifting her chin until she’s looking at me through the steam. Her eyes are bright, vulnerable, searching. I keep my gaze steady—intent, but soft. Not hungry. Not demanding.
Present.
I rest my forehead against hers, water cascading over both of us, and for a moment we just stand there, breathing each other in.
“You don’t have to disappear in here,” I tell her quietly. “You’re safe.”
She nods again. Words still won’t come for her. That’s okay.
I kiss her.
Slow. Deliberate. Not taking—checking in. A careful press of my mouth to hers that asks rather than claims. She melts into it without thinking, her hands sliding up my arms, fingers curling into my shoulders.
The kiss deepens—not urgent, not consuming. Certain.
The world outside the shower fades. No church. No threats. No past reaching for her. Just heat, water, and the way she fits against me like this is exactly where she’s meant to be.
When we finally pull apart, my hands settle on her hips, thumbs brushing slow, grounding circles into her skin.
“We can stay here as long as you want,” I tell her.
She leans into me, her forehead resting against my chest. I feel her listening to my heartbeat beneath the rush of water.
For the first time since I brought her here, I feel her body loosen.
And I hold her there, letting her stay.