Chapter 36
BELLAMY
The water is already warm by the time I step under it, steam fogging the glass panels until the bathroom feels like its own sealed-off world.
I let my head tip forward, palms braced against the tile as the spray hits the back of my neck, sluicing salt and sand and dried sunscreen down the drain. My muscles are loose from the ocean, from the sun, from the way the morning unfolded.
It feels indulgent to stand here and do nothing but exist in my body while Gage cooks me breakfast in his kitchen.
A knock sounds at the door.
“Yeah?” The glass is cool when I lean back against it, heat and chill tangling along my spine.
“Hey,” Gage calls out. “I just need to grab something real quick.”
“Sure, come in.”
The door opens with a soft click. I keep my back to it, water streaming down my spine.
The air shifts—cooler now—as he steps inside.
His footsteps pause, then continue with measured precision.
A drawer slides open, then closes with barely a sound.
The mirror fogs, but through a clear patch, I catch a glimpse of his profile—jaw tight, eyes deliberately trained on the wall, the floor, his own hands—anywhere but the shower glass.
His shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath before he reaches for whatever he came for.
The idea of that restraint sends a small, traitorous thrill through me.
For a second, it feels like we’re both holding our breath—me under the water, him out of it—waiting for something to give.
Then his gaze flicks up, and our eyes lock in the mirror.
Neither of us moves.
Time stretches thin, elastic, humming with possibility. The water keeps running, steam unfurling around the bathroom, but the space between our bodies feels charged with anticipation.
My pulse jumps, and I follow the thread of bravery quietly singing in my veins.
I turn slowly, deliberately. I let the water cascade down my shoulders, rivulets tracing paths between my breasts, over my stomach. His eyes don’t drop. They stay on my face, dark and intent, like he’s anchoring himself there on purpose.
Steam curls around us like a veil, and through it, I hold his gaze. My lips part slightly, voice emerging low and unhurried, each word deliberate as I ask, “Do you like to watch, Gage?”
The question hangs in the humid air between us, honest and unadorned.
Something flickers across his expression—surprise first, a widening of his pupils that makes the blue-gray of his eyes nearly disappear, then heat that flushes his cheekbones and tightens the cords of his neck, then control snapping back into place like a rubber band pulled taut.
His answer comes low, steady, the words vibrating from somewhere deep in his chest, like each syllable costs him something vital to keep that even.
“Only you.”
The words land heavy and warm in my chest, spreading outward like honey poured over bare skin, sweet and viscous and impossible to wash away.
I inhale slowly, letting the truth of it settle.
Then, without breaking eye contact, I trail my fingertips from my collarbone down between my breasts.
His pupils dilate until only a thin ring of blue-gray remains.
The steam curls around us, but I notice how his chest barely moves, how his knuckles whiten against the countertop.
A muscle in his jaw twitches. When my hands continue their journey lower, his breath catches—a small, strangled sound that sends electricity racing up my spine.
My lips curve upward, just slightly, as I arch into my own touch.
My lips part, the words forming before I can second-guess them. “What if...” The question hangs between heartbeats as my fingertips trace the curve of my hip. “I want to watch too?”
His throat works, the tendons in his neck pulling taut. The blue in his eyes disappears entirely as he grips the counter edge until his knuckles bleach white. “Do you?” The question scrapes from somewhere deep in his chest.
I hold his gaze through the steam, my answer a whisper that feels like a promise. “Only you.”
He turns fully toward me, whatever he came in for forgotten as it slips from his fingers and clatters softly onto the counter.
His back meets the counter's edge, his palms flattening against the surface on either side of his hips.
The tendons in his forearms stand out. His chest rises and falls in shallow bursts.
His eyes leave mine. The descent is gradual—first to my throat, then lower. His lips part slightly, and a muscle jumps in his jaw. Tiny bumps rise across my shoulders, down my arms, despite steam curling between us like morning fog.
When my palm slides down to cup my breast, his breath catches—a tiny, strangled sound that sends heat pooling low in my belly. The corner of my mouth lifts as I circle my nipple, noting how his jaw clenches tight enough to make a muscle jump beneath the stubble there.
I half expect him to stalk into the shower and cover my hand with his own, but he stays against the counter, and I stay under the shower head.
I sink my teeth into my lower lip when his restraint finally bends.
He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his navy swim trunks—the only thing he's wearing—and pushes them down just enough. My breath catches. The muscles in his forearm flex as his hand wraps around his cock.
It’s long and thick, and something inside me tightens in response. His eyelids flutter, head tilting back just slightly as his chest rises and falls with each controlled movement. A sound escapes him—deep and raw—as his grip tightens, his rhythm steady and deliberate.
My eyes linger, heat spreading across my skin that has nothing to do with the shower. When I finally look up, his pupils have swallowed the blue-gray entirely. His voice comes rough, barely audible over the water.
“Don't stop, Bell.”
The request is a plea and a dare. My pulse stutters. I keep my gaze on his hand, on the slow, tight turn of his wrist, on the flawless tension in his arm. The raw hunger in him is a living thing—gnawing, barely contained by the glass between us.
I flatten my palm against the shower, pressing my breasts forward so that the water and the heat and his attention flood me all at once. My other hand trails down over my stomach, pausing at that soft, sensitive dip above my hip bone. I could stop, but I don’t.
I let my fingers slip between my thighs, the shower’s heat and the steam, and the intoxication of being watched. I’m not coy. I don’t pretend to be embarrassed. I want him to see me.
He watches with a hunger so raw it makes my skin prickle. He strokes himself with the same measured determination he brings to everything—as if letting himself lose control, even for a moment, the world might tip off its axis.
I test that theory.
I let my head fall back and lift my right leg to the little bench, opening myself up.
“Fuck me,” he breathes out, the faintest tremor betraying how close he is.
I drag my finger through my pussy, teasing myself with soft, light touches. The sound he makes—half growl, half whimper—punches through me, makes me ache in places that have nothing to do with my own touch.
“Keep going, Bell. Show me what you like,” he practically begs.
I sink my finger inside myself, the heat there meeting the heat of his gaze. A soft moan escapes my lips as I begin to move, my hips rising to meet each thrust. My eyelids grow heavy, but I force them to stay open—I won't miss a moment of him.
“How does it feel?” he asks, his voice like gravel. His hand works in a rhythm that matches mine, the muscles in his forearm tensing with each deliberate stroke.
“It's not enough,” I breathe, adding a second finger, arching my back so he can see exactly what I'm doing to myself. “I need more.”
His voice drops an octave, rough with need.
“The detachable one.” My fingers slip free, glistening in the steam as I reach for the smaller showerhead wand.
I press the button, and it hums to life against my palm—a vibration that promises relief from the ache building between my thighs.
His eyes follow every movement, his hand never stopping its rhythm as I position the pulsing water where I need it most.
The first pulse of water is almost too much, a sharp jolt that leaves me clinging to the tile with one slick palm, the other hand guiding the wand wherever I want it.
The hum reverberates through my core, and my knees nearly buckle.
Gage’s breath breaks ragged across the glass.
He looks like he’s barely restraining himself from crossing the space, but he keeps his place, hand working himself slow and tight, every muscle in his arms straining with the effort.
I part my thighs wider, letting the water fall where I want it most, and the pleasure is immediate, raw, not gentle at all.
I ride the wave, arching my hips to chase it, letting myself make noise because I want him to hear it.
The air fills with the wet, rhythmic slap of water and the battered cadence of our breathing, both of us wound so tight that the slightest nudge might unravel everything.
His jaw grinds as he watches me through the glass. His hand moves faster, more desperately now, like if he can just match my pace, he can touch me from the other side.
“I want to watch you come.” Gage’s hand works faster, rougher. His eyes never leave me, and the way he watches—like he’s mapping my every shiver onto his own skin—ignites something reckless inside me.
I let my hips rock into the water, arching shamelessly, and I give myself over to it completely.
“Gage,” I moan.
His eyes narrow, hungry, dangerous. I don't think I've ever been so thoroughly devoured by a gaze alone.
The wand is relentless, and the pleasure barrels through me, sharp and insistent, building with a violence that makes my toes curl and my vision white at the edges. I press the wand harder, chasing the orgasm until it rips through me—loud, messy, uncontained.
My thighs tremble. The tile threatens to slip out from under me, but I ride it until the end, surfacing with a gasp that feels like the first breath after a long submersion.
Through the glass, Gage’s eyes have gone dark and wild. His grip falters, and he grunts, low and guttural, head dropping forward as he comes all over his stomach.
For a single heartbeat, there’s nothing but the sound of the water and our breathing, the echo of what we just shared hanging heavy between us.
Then Gage moves.
Two long strides, the glass door wrenched open, his hand sinking into the back of my hair as his mouth claims mine.
The kiss is urgent and deep, all the restraint of the last few minutes burning off in one searing rush.
I make a small sound against his lips, fingers curling into his shoulders as the world narrows to the press of his body and the taste of him.
A sharp knock cuts through the haze.
“Gage,” Bishop’s voice snaps from the other side of the door. “Why don’t you ever answer your fucking phone?”
The spell shatters instantly.
Gage pulls back, forehead resting against mine for half a second longer than necessary before he exhales and places a chaste kiss on the corner of my mouth.
He steps out of the shower and hollers, “I’m in the fucking shower, man. Give me a minute.”
I blink, heart racing, heat still thrumming through me as reality snaps back into place.
“I’ve been calling you up all morning,” Bishop continues. “Coco called a meeting. Get your ass out of the shower. Let’s go.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Gage grumbles, holding out a towel to me. “Here, Bell, let me hop in there and rinse off.”
I take the towel and step out of the shower, my legs feeling unsteady from pleasure.
I catch his eye once more as I move toward the other door of his Jack-and-Jill bathroom, my skin still flushed pink and radiating heat.
The towel clings damply to my curves as a droplet of water traces down my collarbone.
His gaze follows it, hungry and possessive, the corner of his mouth lifting in that half-smile that promises we're far from done.
I can’t fucking wait.