Desmond
Steam rose as she twisted the faucet, the water pattering against the tiles in a soothing rhythm.
I watched her through half-lidded eyes, the way her scrubs clung to her curves from the long night, her red hair pulled back in a messy bun that begged to be undone.
She was my resident, sharp and capable in the ER chaos, but here, she was just Anya — my partner, the one who held me together when the pieces didn't fit.
“Let me help,” she said softly, her hands already at the hem of my shirt.
I didn't protest. Her fingers brushed my sides as she lifted the fabric over my head, exposing the scars that mapped my new reality.
The residual limb ended just below the knee, the skin still sensitive to the air, a dull ache radiating from it.
She stood, her eyes meeting mine, full of that unspoken understanding.
Her hands moved to my pants, untying the lazy bow on my scrubs, easing them down.
I felt a stir low in my belly, not the urgent fire of before, but something warmer, slower — a need born from exhaustion and her nearness.
The fabric pooled at my ankles, and I stepped out of it, now in just my boxers, the outline of my hardening cock visible against the thin material.
Anya's gaze flicked down, a small smile curving her lips.
She stripped off her own scrubs efficiently, the top revealing her bra, simple white lace that cupped her breasts perfectly.
She unhooked it, letting it fall, her nipples pebbled in the humid air.
Then her pants, sliding down, exposed the soft triangle of hair between her thighs.
Naked, she was breathtaking — curves I knew by heart, skin flushed from the steam.
She took my hand, leading me into the shower.
We had adapted the space for moments like this: tucking the bench against the wall where its smooth surface felt inviting under the spray.
I eased down onto it, the cool tile warming quickly under the water, my residual limb resting comfortably without strain.
The relief was instant, letting me relax fully as the hot streams poured over my shoulders and chest, tracing paths over the scars.
Anya stepped in after me, her body fitting close, breasts brushing my arm as she knelt slightly to reach the soap.
She lathered it between her palms before gliding her hands over my back, fingers kneading the tension from my shoulders and down my spine.
I closed my eyes, the ache in my residual limb fading under the warmth and her touch.
From this angle, seated, she had better access, her movements unhurried, pressing into the knots with just the right pressure.
She shifted, soapy hands moving to my chest, circling my nipples until they tightened, sending a lazy spark through me.
My cock twitched, fully erect now, standing up from my lap as she worked lower, her thigh grazing it teasingly.
The bench gave me stability, allowing me to lean back slightly, surrendering to the sensation without worry of balance.
I reached for her, pulling her closer so she straddled my lap, the water slicking our skin.
Our mouths met under the spray, the kiss slow and deep, tongues sliding together in a rhythm that mirrored the water's flow.
She tasted of mint and exhaustion, her lips parting for me as I nipped gently at her bottom one.
Seated like this, I could hold her waist with both hands.
My fingers roamed her body, cupping her breasts, thumb rolling over the nipple until she sighed into my mouth.
She arched into it, her own hand trailing down my abdomen, fingers wrapping around my cock.
She stroked me languidly; the soap making her grip slick and perfect, thumb swiping over the head to spread the bead of precum there.
I thrust up into her fist, the pleasure building in soft waves, the bench providing the perfect leverage.
“Anya,” I breathed, breaking the kiss to trail my lips down her neck, sucking lightly at the pulse point.
She tilted her head back, water wetting her hair, strands clinging to her skin.
I moved lower, mouth closing over her nipple, tongue flicking as I sucked, drawing a soft moan from her.
Her free hand braced on my shoulder, steadying us both as she rocked gently in my lap.
She released my cock, turning slightly to rinse the soap under the stream, then guided my hand between her legs.
She was warm and slick, and not just from the water — she parted under my fingers, clit swollen and begging.
I circled it slowly, feeling her hips rock against my touch, her breaths coming in shallow gasps.
She was so responsive, always had been, but tonight it felt like more — like she was pouring her care into every shiver.
The bench let me focus entirely on her, no strain pulling me away.
I slipped a finger inside her, then two, curling them to make her clench around me.
She kissed me again, harder this time, her hand returning to pump my cock in time with my thrusts.
The steam wrapped around us, the world narrowing to this: her body on mine, the slide of skin, the shared rhythm, elevated by the steady seat beneath me.
My residual limb rested against the bench's edge, a reminder that didn't sting — not with her here.
She adjusted seamlessly, widening her stance over my lap, opening herself wider.
I pressed her down, my cock nudging her entrance, and she nodded, eyes locked on mine.
She sank onto me slowly, inch by inch, her cunt enveloping me in a tight, wet heat.
We both stilled for a moment, savoring the fullness, the connection, her weight settling perfectly in the bench-supported position.
Then we moved, gentle rocks under the water, my hands on her hips guiding her as she rode me deep.
She met each one, her nails digging lightly into my shoulders, moans mingling with the shower's hum.
It built gradually, pleasure coiling low, her walls fluttering around me as she neared the edge, the bench making every motion fluid and intimate.
“Come with me,” she whispered, and I did, burying my face in her neck as I spilled inside her, her own release pulsing around my cock. We clung together, breaths syncing, the water washing away the night's grime but not the intimacy.
Eventually, she reached for the shampoo, washing my hair with tender fingers, massaging my scalp until I hummed in contentment while still seated.
I returned the favor, fingers combing through her strands, rinsing until they shone.
We stepped out, towels soft against our skin, her helping me dry off, reattaching the prosthetic with quiet efficiency.
Back in the living room, wrapped in robes, she curled up against me on the couch. The exhaustion lingered, but lighter now, shared. “First night back,” she murmured, kissing my jaw. “You did well, Des.”
I squeezed her hand, the new normal feeling a little less daunting with her beside me.