Chapter 13 #2
The trousers drop. His boxers follow, and then he’s naked, stepping under the water with me, the spray catching the hard lines of his body, the thick length of his cock already half-hard, flushed dark at the tip. My mouth goes dry.
“Fuck,” he breathes, and it’s not clear if he’s talking to me or himself.
His hands come up, but he doesn’t touch me.
Not yet. He braces them against the tile on either side of my head, caging me in without trapping me.
The water runs between us, slick and hot, turning his skin to something glossy, something edible.
“I wasn’t sure you’d actually—” He swallows. “That you’d may have changed your—”
I cut him off with a look. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
His laugh is a low, rough thing, more exhale than sound. “Yeah. You are.”
I reach out then, my fingers trailing down his chest, over the light dusting of hair, the ridged planes of his stomach. His breath hitches when I wrap my hand around his cock, still thickening under my touch.
“You’re hard,” I murmur, because stating the obvious has never felt so necessary. His skin is velvet over steel, the vein along the underside pulsing against my palm.
“Fuck, Chloe,” he groans, his head dropping forward, water dripping from his hair onto my shoulder. “You’ve got no idea what you do to me.”
I stroke him once, slow, from root to tip, and his hips jerk forward like he can’t help it. “I think I’ve got some idea.”
His hand snaps out, gripping my wrist—not to stop me, but to guide me. His fingers are calloused, chef’s hands, and the contrast of rough skin against the slick heat of my own makes my breath stutter.
“Let’s see what I do to you,” he growls, his free hand sliding between my thighs. His fingers find me easily, parting my lips. I’m swollen, the first brush of his fingertips against my clit sending a jolt through me that has my knees threatening to buckle.
“Tom—” His name comes out like a warning, but he doesn’t listen.
“Shh,” he murmurs, his mouth finding the shell of my ear, his teeth grazing the lobe. “Let me.”
And then his fingers are inside me, two of them, curling up in a way that makes my back arch off the tile. The water pounds down on us, mixing with the sounds we’re making.
“You’re so ready for me,” he groans, his thumb circling my clit in tight, relentless loops. “Fuck, Chloe. Take what you need from me.” His fingers press deeper, and I gasp, the nails from my free hand digging into his shoulders.
The word sends a shameful thrill through me. I should be embarrassed. I should care. But all I can focus on is the way his cock twitches in my grip, the way his breath hitches when I squeeze just a little tighter.
“Yes,” I hiss, because honesty is the only thing left. “I want you to fuck me. Just like this. Messy. Real. Now.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice.
In one smooth motion, he spins me around, pressing my palms flat against the tile.
The water hits my back, my ass, the heat of his body a brand against mine.
His cock slides between my thighs, not inside—not yet—just teasing, the thick head dragging through my folds making me shiver with anticipation.
“You’re sure?” he asks again, his voice a growl in my ear, his teeth scraping the sensitive skin of my neck.
I push back against him, my ass cradling his cock, and he groans, the sound raw, almost pained.
“Fuck me, Tom,” I demand. “Or I swear to all that is holy—”
He laughs, dark and breathless, and then his hand is tangling in my hair, yanking my head back just enough to expose my throat. His other hand grips my hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
And then he’s inside me.
One thrust, deep and unrelenting, stretching me open in a way that has my vision whiting out for a second. I cry out, the sound swallowed by the steam, by the pounding water, by the way his mouth crashes down on mine as he fucks me like he’s been starving for it.
“God, you feel—” He doesn’t finish. He can’t. His hips snap forward, his cock driving into me with a wet, obscene sound, the slap of skin on skin echoing off the walls. “So tight. So fucking perfect.”
I can feel it—the drag of him, the way my body clings to his, the slick heat of my own arousal mixing with the water, with the blood, with the sheer, filthy reality of what we’re doing. It’s too much. It’s everything.
His free hand slides around my front, his fingers finding my clit again, rubbing in tight, punishing circles that have my legs shaking.
“Come for me,” he orders, his voice a rough whisper against my ear. “I want to feel you squeeze my cock, Chloe. I want you to drown me.”
And just like that, I’m there—tipping over the edge with a broken cry, my body clamping down around him, my orgasm ripping through me in waves that leave me boneless, gasping.
For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of our ragged breathing, the water still falling, the steam still curling around us like a living thing.
Then Tom presses a kiss to the back of my neck, his lips lingering against my skin.
“Still good?” he murmurs.
I laugh, because what else is there to do? My body is a live wire, my skin oversensitive, my heart still hammering against my ribs.
“Yeah,” I breathe. “I’m good.”
So good. And in so much trouble.