Chapter 1: Too Close, Too Perfect
The water was a hot, steady rush, beating the weariness from their shoulders. Steam curled in the air, thick with the scent of her lavender shampoo and his plain soap. It filled the small cubicle, clinging to the tiles and fogging the mirror until the world outside was just a blur.
Liam’s hands slid over Maya’s slick skin, his photographer’s fingers tracing the new, gentle slope of her hips. She was pressed against him, her back to his chest, and he could feel the solid, real weight of her. It was a good weight. A right weight. His cock, hard against the small of her back, was a pretty clear testament to that.
He bent his head, his lips finding the damp skin where her neck met her shoulder. “Fuck,” he murmured, the word a low rumble lost in the spray. “You feel even better like this.”
For a second, she went completely still. It was just a hitch in her breathing, a subtle tightening under his palms. Then she let out a soft laugh, but it was a little too high, a little too quick. “Better? You mean… bigger?”
He turned her around slowly. Water plastered her dark hair to her cheeks and beaded on her eyelashes. Her expression was a careful attempt at her usual boldness, but he saw the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. It was a look he hadn’t seen in a long time.
“No,” he said, his voice firm. He let his hands settle on the soft curve of her waist, his thumbs stroking the damp skin. “I mean better. Softer. More you.” He grinned, trying to lighten the moment. “It’s like you’ve been upgraded. I got the deluxe edition.”
She swatted his arm, a real smile finally touching her lips. “You’re such an idiot.”
“Your idiot.” He leaned in and kissed her, a slow, deep kiss that tasted of water and her. When he pulled back, he kept his forehead resting against hers. “Seriously, May. You’re… you’re like one of those Renaissance statues now. All… substance. I was always worried a strong wind would carry you away before.”
She looked down, her fingers tracing the line of his collarbone. “It’s the late-night pizza. And the stress-sculpting. I’ve been making these huge, angry clay heads that keep exploding in the kiln. It’s… a whole thing.”
“I like the pizza. I like the clay heads.” He squeezed her hips. “I like that I don’t feel like I’m going to break you when we…”
“When we what?” she teased, her confidence flooding back, her eyes sparkling.
“You know.” He felt his ears go red. Even after a year, she could still do that to him.
“Say it.”
He nuzzled into her neck, breathing her in. “When I fuck you.” The words were a hot whisper against her skin.
The water was starting to run lukewarm. He reached behind her and turned the squeaky knob, the sudden silence ringing in their ears. The only sound was the steady plink… plink… of the showerhead dripping onto the worn linoleum.
He grabbed a towel, rough and clean, and wrapped it around her, rubbing her arms vigorously until she laughed and pushed him away. “Okay, okay! I’m dry. I’m prune-y. I’m done.”
He wrapped another towel around his waist and used the edge of his hand to wipe a clear streak on the fogged mirror. Their reflections shimmered in the steam, ghost-like. She stood beside him, looking at her own body, her gaze thoughtful, not critical.
“You really don’t mind?” she asked quietly, her voice small in the humid room.
He met her eyes in the glass. “Mind?” He shook his head, a slow, sure movement. “Maya, I’m in love with you. Not the you fr