Chapter 3: Back home
The last champagne flute clinked onto the dirty tray. My shoulders slumped, the weight of the shift, of the stolen moments in the closet and the alcove, settling deep into my bones like lead. The ballroom lights were dimming, casting long, distorted shadows across the deserted dance floor. Only the clatter from the kitchen echoed now, the clean-up crew moving in.
Seth appeared beside the service station, tossing his crumpled bowtie onto a stack of tablecloths. His hair was messier than usual, a dark tumble over his forehead, and his eyes, when they met mine, held the familiar, disconcerting mix of exhaustion and simmering heat. "Ride?" he asked, the single word loaded, bypassing the wreckage of unspoken conversations, the technician’s startled face in the alcove still burning in my memory.
I just nodded, too tired, too wired, to speak. Too aware of the drying stickiness between my thighs, a persistent reminder.
The drive to my apartment was silent, thick with the unsaid. Streetlights painted fleeting stripes across Seth’s profile. He drove with one hand resting loosely on the wheel, the other tapping an absent rhythm on his knee. I stared out the window at the sleeping city, the rhythmic throb low in my belly a counterpoint to the engine’s hum. Mine. The word echoed, not just his possession, but the undeniable claim my body seemed to have staked on him, too. A dangerous addiction.
My apartment door clicked shut behind us, locking out the world. The small space felt suddenly charged, intimate. The lingering scent of turpentine from my abandoned canvases mixed with the stale air. Awkwardness descended, heavy and unfamiliar after the raw intimacy of the alcove. Seth kicked off his polished catering shoes, leaving them haphazardly by the door.
"I reek of truffle oil and desperation," he muttered, running a hand through his hair, his gaze sweeping the cramped living room before landing back on me. "Shower?"
"Yeah," I breathed, the word escaping in a rush. "God, yes." Not just the grime of the shift. The phantom feel of his hands, his mouth, the scent of us clinging to my skin beneath the starched jacket. I needed it gone. Or maybe just covered by steam and soap. "Bathroom's tiny. One at a time."
He followed me down the short hallway. I pushed open the bathroom door, flipping on the light. The small, white-tiled space felt exposed under the harsh bulb. Just a narrow tub with a shower curtain patterned with faded seashells, a cracked sink, towels hanging crookedly on the rail. "Towels are clean," I said, gesturing vaguely. "I'll go first."
As I moved to step inside, his hand closed gently around my wrist. Not demanding, just stopping me. His thumb brushed the rapidly beating pulse point. "Heather." His voice was low, rough. He stepped closer, the heat of his body radiating against my back even through our clothes. The scent of the gala – sweat, spilled champagne, him – intensified. "It's late. We're both filthy." His other hand came up, fingers tracing the stiff line of my catering jacket collar. "Waste of water doing two loads."
My breath hitched. The practicality was absurd, a flimsy pretext. The memory of the storage closet, the alcove, the sheer animal intensity, crashed over me. Resistance felt pointless. A formality my body refused to observe. The technician’s knowing look flashed again, sharpening the need, the defiance. "Seth..."
"Just showering," he murmured, his lips grazing the sensitive shell of my ear as he deftly began unbuttoning my jacket. One button. Two. His knuckles grazed the swell of my breast. "Getting clean." Another button popped free. The jacket gaped open. His hands slid inside, pushing it off my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor with a soft thud. His palms flattened against the thin fabric of my blouse, warm through the cotton. "That’s all."
I turned within the circle of his arms. His eyes were dark, intense, but there was a question there too, beneath the certainty. A flicker of the vulnerability I’d seen in the closet. Waiting. My fingers, clumsy, found the buttons of his own stained white shirt. "Just showering," I echoed, my voice barely audible over the sudden pounding of my heart. The first button gave way, revealing a glimpse of tanned skin, the hard line of his collarbone.
We undressed each other slowly, deliberately, amidst the cramped space beside the tub. Fabric rustled, shoes thumped softly. No frantic tearing this time. A different kind of tension, thick and anticipatory. The air grew humid even before the water turned on. Seeing him bare, the powerful lines of his shoulders, the defined muscles of his stomach, the blatant evidence of his arousal, sent a fresh wave of heat flooding through me. He reached past me, fiddling with the taps. Water roared, filling the small room with steam, fogging the mirror instantly, obscuring our reflections, creating a private, clouded world.
He stepped into the tub first, pulling the faded curtain partway across. Held out his hand. I took it, the touch electric. The porcelain was cool underfoot for a second before the hot spray hit my back, plastering my hair to my skull instantly. I gasped at the heat, the sudden downpour. Seth pulled me fully into the stream, pressing me back against the cool tiles. Water sluiced over us, washing away the grime of the gala, the lingering traces of champagne, pooling around our feet.
His hands, slick with water and cheap soap, began smooth, purposeful circles on my back. Strong thumbs working the knots from my shoulders, sliding down the curve of my spine. It felt shockingly good. Simple. Tender. An intimacy deeper, somehow, than the frantic couplings. I leaned into it, sighing, letting the tension ease from my muscles. His fingers traced my ribs, my waist, slid around the curve of my hip.
Then they dipped lower. Found the soft swell of my ass. Squeezed. Possessive. The tenderness shifted. The soap made his hands glide easily, sensually. He pressed against me, the hard line of his cock unmistakable against the small of my back. One hand slid around my hip, skimming my belly, fingers slipping through the wet curls below. Finding me slick and ready despite the water. Of course. Always.
"No," I breathed, not meaning it, pushing back against him instead, feeling him thick and demanding. The contrast of the hot spray, the cool tiles, his seeking hands, was overwhelming.
"Shhh," he murmured against my wet shoulder, nipping lightly. His fingers circled, pressed, found the swollen nub. "Just getting clean here too, Red." He teased, his touch deliberate, circling but not quite giving me what I craved, while his other hand spread my cheeks apart. "Missed this." The blunt head of his cock pressed against my entrance, slippery with soap and water and my own arousal. "Need to feel you."
He didn't ask. Didn't hesitate. He pushed forward, a slow, insistent invasion that stole my breath. The water pounded down on us, masking the slick sounds, the low groan that rumbled in his chest as he slid home. He filled me completely, stretching, the angle deep and intense. He stilled for a moment, buried to the hilt, both hands gripping my hips hard. "Fuck, yes," he breathed into the steam. "Tight. Always so fucking tight for me."
Then he moved. Long, deliberate strokes, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in with controlled power. The rhythm was relentless, measured, each thrust grinding deep, pressing me harder into the wet tiles. The shower spray hit my back, my neck, plastering my hair to my skin. Steam filled my lungs. His hands held me firm, controlling the pace, the depth. My fingers scrabbled against the slick tiles for purchase. Every inward stroke hit that perfect spot, sending jolts of white-hot pleasure through my core, coiling the tension impossibly tight. Water streamed down my face. I couldn't tell if it was spray or tears.
"Like this," he growled, his voice thick with need and water. "Taking me. Deep." He punctuated his words with harder thrusts. "Still mine, Heather?"
I couldn't speak. My head dropped back against his shoulder. A desperate moan was ripped from me. He shifted his grip, one hand sliding around to my front again, fingers finding my clit through the wet tangle of curls. Rubbing in firm, demanding circles. The dual assault was too much. The coil snapped. Pleasure detonated, sharp and shattering, radiating out from my core in violent waves. I cried out, my body clamping down hard around him, convulsing.
Feeling me come, Seth lost his controlled rhythm. His thrusts became frantic, pounding. He buried himself deep, grinding, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he pulsed inside me, warmth spilling even as the water tried to wash it away. He held himself there, shuddering, his forehead pressed to my wet back, both of us gasping, trembling under the relentless downpour.
The water began to cool. Reality seeped back with the temperature change. The cramped tiled space. The dripping faucet. Seth slowly withdrew, the sensation making me flinch. He reached past me, his arm brushing my sensitized skin, and turned off the tap. The sudden silence was deafening. Only our ragged breathing and the drip-drip-drip from the showerhead filled the steamy air.
He pulled the curtain aside. Cooler air rushed in, raising goosebumps on my wet skin. Wordlessly, he grabbed a towel, rough but clean, and began drying me. His movements were efficient, almost impersonal at first – back, arms, shoulders. Then he knelt, towel sliding down my legs, rough fabric rasping over my calves, my thighs. His eyes, dark and unreadable in the steam-hazed light, met mine as he carefully dabbed between my legs. The intimacy of the act, after what we’d just done, felt more exposing than the sex itself. My breath caught.
He stood, wrapping the towel around me roughly. Grabbed another for himself, rubbing it over his head, his torso. "Your turn," he said, his voice hoarse, nodding towards the tub. He stepped out onto the bathmat, dripping.
I stood there, towel clutched tightly, suddenly shivering violently despite the lingering steam. The intensity of the shower, the brutality of the coupling against the tiles, left me feeling hollowed out, raw. He was already heading towards the door, towel slung low on his hips, leaving wet footprints on the linoleum. "Bedroom down the hall?" he asked, not looking back.
"Yeah," I whispered.
He disappeared. I stood alone in the humid bathroom, the mirror still fogged, the air thick with the scent of cheap soap and sex. The water had washed away the physical traces, but the feeling – the claiming, the relentless possession – was branded deeper than ever. I dried myself mechanically, the rough towel scraping my sensitized skin. My legs felt unsteady. Mine.
Wrapping the towel tightly around me, I pushed open the bathroom door. The air in the hallway was cool, making me shiver again. I padded down the short corridor to my tiny bedroom. Seth stood by the window, silhouetted against the neon glow filtering through the thin curtains. His towel was gone. He was naked, facing away, looking out at the city lights.
I stopped in the doorway. The tension in the room was different now. Thick, expectant, but laced with something else. Exhaustion? Uncertainty? The weight of everything unsaid, from the closet to the alcove to the shower, pressed down.
I didn't speak. I walked to the narrow bed, the sheets cool and crisp against the backs of my legs as I sat on the edge. I let the towel fall open around my waist, baring my skin to the cool air. Then I leaned back, my damp hair spreading on the pillow. I let my legs hang off the side, feet just brushing the worn rug. Open. Waiting.
He turned.
The neon light from the window painted stripes across his body – the hard planes of his chest, the defined muscles of his stomach, the potent line of his cock, already half-hard again. His eyes, shadowed, traveled slowly from my face, down my throat, over the curve of my breasts, lingering on the dark triangle of hair, down the length of my bare legs. The heat in that look was familiar, primal.
But there was something else flickering in his gaze as he took a step towards the bed. Something that hadn’t been there in the steam, or the alcove, or the closet. Something that looked almost like… hesitation. Or maybe just the first crack in his confident armor, revealing the weight of this thing between us, this consuming fire we couldn't seem to extinguish.
He stopped at the edge of the bed, his gaze locked with mine. The silence stretched, taut as a wire. The dripping faucet from the bathroom echoed distantly. My heart hammered against my ribs.
"Red..." he started, his voice low, rough, cutting through the thick quiet.
"Red..." he started, his voice low, rough, cutting through the thick quiet. It hung there, unfinished. His eyes, shadowed pools reflecting the streetlight’s neon bleed through my thin curtains, held mine. No smirk now. Just that unnerving hesitation, a crack in the usual reckless certainty. The memory of the alcove technician’s face flashed – judgment, surprise – tightening my throat. "The talking," I managed, the words scraping out. "You said... later."
"Yeah." He took a step closer, the worn rug muffling the sound. Another step. He stood between my open legs, the heat radiating off his bare skin like a furnace after the shower’s chill. His gaze drifted down, not with playful hunger this time, but a stark, almost painful intensity. Taking in my throat, the curve of my breasts still damp at the edges, the vulnerable dip of my navel, the dark triangle, my legs splayed and waiting. The silence stretched, filled only by the distant city thrum and the frantic drumming of my own pulse against my ribs. His knuckles brushed my inner thigh, a touch so light it sparked like static.
"I know what I said." His voice was gravel. His thumb traced the sensitive crease where thigh met hip. My breath hitched. "But looking at you..." He leaned down, bracing one hand on the mattress beside my hip, his face inches from mine. His breath smelled faintly of toothpaste, a mundane contrast to the chaos inside me. His other hand slid up my inner thigh, fingers splaying possessively over the soft skin. "...Like this. Waiting." His eyes searched mine, that flicker of something raw beneath the heat. "Can’t think past this right now. Can you?"
Truth was a hammer blow. The desperate need thrumming low in my belly, the phantom ache from the shower’s claiming, the persistent memory of his ‘mine’ growled against my skin – they screamed louder than reason, louder than the technician’s stare. I shook my head, a tiny, helpless motion. Words failed. My hand lifted, trembling, tracing the tense line of his jaw, the slight stubble rough against my fingertips. An answer.
The vulnerability in his eyes hardened, replaced by a dark fire that stole my breath. Possession, yes, but laced with something desperate, almost fearful. His fingers tightened on my thigh, pushing it wider. "Heather," he breathed, a ragged plea and command fused into one syllable. He shifted, kneeling on the rug between my legs. His free hand slid beneath my lower back, lifting my hips slightly off the bed, aligning us. The blunt, velvety head of him pressed against my entrance, finding me slick and impossibly ready, as always. My body arched instinctively, seeking.
He didn’t plunge. Not yet. He held himself there, poised, stretching me just enough to make me gasp. His eyes, locked on mine, were twin flames in the dimness. "Tell me," he demanded, his voice cracking. "Even after... everything. Even knowing..." He didn't finish, but the unfinished sentences hung heavy: the closet frenzy, the alcove recklessness, the technician’s witness, the suffocating need. "Tell me you still want this. Want me."
The question was a blade. Raw. Honest. Terrifying. Past the thrill, past the undeniable chemistry, past the messy collision of our bodies, it laid bare the precipice we’d charged towards. Did I? Not just the sex, but him. The chaos he brought. The potential wreckage. My fingers dug into his shoulders, anchoring myself. The city light painted shifting patterns on his skin. I saw the tension in his jaw, the tremble in the hand holding my hip. He was waiting, truly waiting, for my answer. Not demanding, not assuming. Just... waiting.
My throat closed. All I could manage was a choked whisper, raw and honest as his question. "Yes." It wasn't just about the body beneath him. It was the everything. The terrifying, consuming everything of Seth.
Relief, fierce and immediate, flashed across his face, mingling with the returning heat. The hesitation vanished, burned away. His grip on my hip tightened, fingers digging in, a brand. He lowered his head, his lips crashing against mine in a kiss that was pure possession, raw and claiming, silencing any further words. His hips snapped forward, hard and final.