Chapter 10
Steam And Surrender
~ROSEMARIE~
The bed is empty when I wake.
The delicious, furnace-like warmth that had been pressed against my back, my front, everywhere, is gone.
The heavy weight of his arm across my waist, the steady thump of his heart under my cheek—vanished.
The duvet is still tucked around me, but it’s a poor substitute.
It smells like him, yes, smoked leather and saffron and sex, but it’s not him.
I make a small, displeased sound into the pillow and burrow deeper, chasing the lingering heat. My body feels heavy in the best way: muscles loose, skin tingling, core deliciously tender from hours of being thoroughly, gloriously wrecked.
For a sleepy second I wonder if he’s left. If the fairytale ended while I was out cold and he slipped away like some Alphas do—quiet, efficient, no note, no trace except the ache between my thighs and the scent soaked into my skin.
Then I hear it: the faint hiss of the shower running in the en-suite.
Relief flutters through me, followed immediately by something warmer, hungrier. I’m about to close my eyes and drift again when a low, guttural grunt cuts through the water noise. Deep. Raw. Unmistakably male.
I freeze.
Did I imagine that?
Another sound follows—rougher this time, edged with frustration and pleasure. My omega ears perk. There’s no mistaking it now.
He’s jerking off in there.
The realization hits me like a shot of espresso straight to the veins.
Heat pools low in my belly, slick gathering fresh and instant.
This man—who fucked me senseless for hours, who came so hard I felt it in my soul—is still so turned on by the memory of me that he needs relief in the middle of the night.
Opportunity knocks, loud and shameless.
Option one: roll over, pretend I heard nothing, go back to sleep like a good little one-night stand.
Option two: waltz in there, sleepy and naked and bold, and finish what his hand started.
Frisky as fuck wins. Obviously.
I push up slowly, dragging the thick charcoal duvet with me.
It’s huge—practically a blanket cape—and I wrap it around my shoulders like a toga as I pad barefoot across the cool hardwood.
The bedroom is bathed in soft pre-dawn gray, snow still falling lazily outside the tall windows.
The bathroom door is ajar, warm light and steam spilling out in invitation.
I pause just outside, ear tilted. Water running. Heavy breathing. The occasional slick sound that makes my thighs clench.
Grinning to myself, I nudge the door open with my knuckle.
It creaks.
The shower stops instantly. Silence except for water dripping from the rainfall head.
He knows I’m here. Busted.
I lean against the doorframe, blanket clutched loosely, hair a wild mess, and meet his eyes through the fogged glass.
He’s standing under the now-still spray, water sluicing down that carved body, cock still hard and heavy in his loose fist. Steam curls around his tattoos like incense.
His deep mocha gaze locks on me—surprised, hungry, but not embarrassed. Never embarrassed.
“Thought I heard someone having a private party without me,” I say, voice husky with sleep and mischief.
He exhales a rough laugh, shaking water from his short hair. “You need sleep, Sweetness. Don’t feel obligated to entertain my apparently endless sex drive.”
The fact that he’s trying to be noble while still rock-hard and dripping wet is adorable. And hilarious.
I arch a brow, licking my lips slowly. “Has no omega ever kept up with you for multiple rounds in one night, Tank?”
He doesn’t answer. Just stares, jaw tight, eyes darkening.
That silence is all the answer I need.
Smirking, I let the blanket fall.
It pools at my feet in a soft heap, leaving me bare under the warm bathroom light. His gaze rakes over me—slow, possessive—taking in my flushed skin, the faint marks he left on my breasts and hips, the slick already glistening on my inner thighs.
I step forward, completely unashamed. “Turn the water back on, Alpha. And make it hot. I’m not into the ice-bucket phase.”
A low chuckle rumbles out of him—deep, delighted—and he reaches for the handle.
Hot water cascades again, filling the marble shower with fresh steam.
I step in, sighing as the heat hits my skin, and before I can reach for him, his arm snakes around my waist, hauling me flush against his wet, chiseled body.
His mouth crashes into mine—no gentle good-morning peck, but a tongue-twisting, devouring kiss that steals my breath and curls my toes. I moan into it, hands sliding up his slick back, nails scraping over muscle. He tastes like mint and raw desire, and I can’t get close enough.
Without breaking the kiss, he lifts me effortlessly—hands under my thighs, pressing my back to the cool tiles. The contrast—scorching water, cold wall, burning Alpha—makes me gasp. He swallows the sound, angling his hips until the thick head of his cock nudges my entrance.
Then he slides home in one smooth, deep thrust.
We both groan, loud and unrestrained.
He fucks me exactly how he needs it: hard, deliberate, punishing in the best way.
Water pounds over us, plastering my hair to my back, running in rivulets between our bodies.
His grunts echo off the marble—rough curses about how addicting my pussy is, how dangerously perfect I feel wrapped around him.
I manage to gasp out, between moans, “You say that to all your nightly guests?”
He growls against my throat, teeth grazing the sensitive spot below my ear. “Fuck no.” A hot kiss pressed there, voice low and serious. “You’re the first I’ve ever brought to my real place, Rosemarie. You’ve already climbed the goddamn ladder.”
The use of my actual name—rough, reverent—combined with the confession sends a fresh wave of slick rushing around him. I hum, the sound breaking into a higher-pitched moan when he shifts angle, dragging over that devastating spot inside me.
“Fuck—faster, faster, right there—”
He obliges and then some. Thrusts turn fast, extra deep, hips snapping with precision that has my vision whiting out at the edges.
Pleasure coils tight and vicious; I come undone in seconds, clenching around him like an anaconda, milking him with rhythmic pulses that rip a guttural curse from his chest.
He follows right after, burying himself to the hilt and spilling hot inside me—pulse after pulse that I feel leak deep. He pulls out just as his knot begins to swell, denying the lock again.
But he’s not done with me.
Strong hands grip my thighs, and suddenly he’s lifting me higher—higher—until my legs are hooked over his broad shoulders, my back sliding up the tiled wall, core completely exposed to his mouth.
I barely have time to suck in a shocked breath before his tongue is on me.
He licks me clean—slow, filthy drags through my folds, gathering our combined release like it’s his favorite dessert.
The flat of his tongue, the pointed tip, the gentle suction on my clit—every trick designed to unravel me all over again.
One of his hands disappears between his legs; I realize he’s gripping his knot, massaging it roughly to take the edge off while he feasts.
I lose language.
Curses tumble out first—English, raw, creative. Then, as the second orgasm barrels toward me, my brain short-circuits into French. Full, fluent Parisian French—swearing, pleading, praising—spilling from my lips like I’m possessed.
He smirks against my pussy—I feel it—then seals his mouth over my clit and sucks just right.
I come so hard I squirt, a hot rush that leaves me quivering, thighs shaking against his ears. He groans deep, the vibration prolonging every aftershock.
I feel him tense—close again—and he starts to lower me carefully.
But I’m not having that.
The second my feet touch the shower floor, I drop to my knees on the warm marble, breathless, trembling, but determined. Water streams over both of us as I look up, open my mouth, and rasp, “Shoot here.”
His eyes flare wide. “Fucking beauty—”
He fists himself, stroking fast and rough. Three strokes, maybe four, and he’s coming—thick ropes painting my tongue, my lips, streaking across my cheek. I swallow what lands inside, humming at the taste.
He doesn’t let me finish.
He hauls me up, both of us sinking to our knees on the shower floor, and kisses me—messy, desperate, sharing the taste of us between our tongues until we’re forced to break apart for air.
Water pours over us, steam thick as London fog, our foreheads pressed together.
I grin first, voice hoarse. “Think you’ll last until morning, big guy?”
He laughs—low, winded, utterly satisfied—and nips my bottom lip.
“Fuck yeah, Sweetness. Sunrise round’s already on the schedule.”
And somehow, kneeling drenched and spent in his shower, I believe him.