Chapter 40: Steam and Surrender
The scent of sex and sweat still clung to our skin, a heady musk layered over the fading chill of the mountain air trapped in the suite. Gena lay boneless beside me, her breathing finally steadying after the brutal intensity of her climax. The flush hadn’t faded from her skin; it looked like a permanent bloom beneath the moonlit pallor. My own pulse still hammered in my ears, an echo of the primal drumbeat that had driven me. Possession sang hot and thick in my veins.
She stirred, a low murmur escaping her swollen lips. "Amy..." Her voice was a rasp, wrecked.
"Shower," I stated, the word rough. It wasn't a question. The need to cleanse, to mark her again in a different way, was almost as urgent as the need that had driven me moments before. To see the water sluice over her, to feel her slick skin under my hands anew.
I slid off the bed, ignoring the pleasant ache in my muscles, the deeper throb between my own legs. Reaching down, I hooked my hands under her arms, hauling her upright. She wobbled, her legs trembling, leaning heavily into me. Her head lolled against my shoulder, her warm breath puffing against my neck. That faint, unnatural jasmine scent, her succubus heritage, was stronger now, mingling dizzyingly with her own arousal. I half-carried, half-guided her the short distance to the ensuite bathroom.
The air shifted as I pushed the door open. Lavender-scented steam billowed out, thick and cloying, instantly coating my skin in a fine mist. The shower was already running from earlier, the sound a steady hiss against the tiles. I hit the light switch, bathing the room in a soft, golden glow that struggled against the fog.
Gena whimpered as the cooler air hit her overheated skin. I steered her directly towards the large, glass-walled shower stall. Without preamble, I shoved her back against the slick, steamed-up tiles. They were warm from the water, but the sudden pressure made her gasp. Her violet eyes flew open, wide and startled, pupils still dilated, catching the light like fractured amethysts.
"Stay," I commanded, my voice low. The water cascaded down nearby, misting my face, plastering my short hair to my skull. She obeyed, pressing herself flat against the tiles, her chest heaving. The silver ring on her finger – my ring on her finger – gleamed dully through the condensation.
I stepped into the spray, letting the hot water soak through my thin shirt and shorts instantly. It plastered the fabric to my skin, outlining every curve, every muscle. I didn’t care. My gaze raked over Gena, pinned there. Water droplets beaded on her perfect skin, tracing paths down her neck, over the swell of her breasts, across the flat plane of her stomach. Her dark hair was already clinging to her shoulders and back, tangled and wet.
"You’re even more beautiful wet," I growled, the sound rumbling from deep in my chest, almost lost in the shower’s hiss. The raw truth of it tightened my gut. Water slicked her skin to a high sheen, making her look sculpted, ethereal, impossibly desirable.
I closed the distance in one stride. My hands, rough from years of rope and rock, slid over her wet flesh, possessive, claiming. Over her shoulders, down her arms, mapping the contours of her ribs, the dip of her waist. She shivered violently, a tremor running through her entire frame, but it wasn't from cold. Her nipples, hard and dark pink, peaked beneath my touch as my palms grazed her sides.
My gaze locked onto hers. That deep, possessive hunger flared again, hotter than the shower spray. I crushed my mouth to hers.
It wasn’t gentle. It was claiming. My tongue forced its way past her parted lips, tasting the lingering sweetness of her, the faint metallic tang of my own skin from earlier, the clean water. She gasped into my mouth, a desperate, hungry sound, her hands flying up to clutch at my soaked shirt. Her hips pushed forward instinctively, seeking contact against my thigh. I could feel the heat radiating from her core even through the wet fabric separating us.
I broke the kiss just enough to rasp against her slick lips, my breath hot. "Do you like being touched by your husband mommy?"
Her answer was a choked sob, her eyes flaring with a mixture of shock, lust, and something deeper, something that looked almost like worship. "Y-yes," she gasped. "God, yes... please..."
Fueled by her ragged plea, I dipped my head. My mouth found the taut peak of her right breast. I sucked the hard nipple deep into my mouth, my tongue swirling roughly, relentlessly, around the sensitive bud. Water streamed over my head, down my neck, soaking us both further. Her cry was sharp, echoing off the tiles, her hands tightening in my hair, pulling hard.
"Fuck! Amy! Please!" Her back arched off the tiles, pressing her breast harder into my mouth. I bit down gently, then sucked harder, drawing a guttural moan from her throat. My free hand slid down her slick stomach, fingers splaying over the soft curls below. She was already drenched, her inner thighs slick with more than just water.
I traced her soaked slit with two fingers, feeling the swollen heat, the desperate readiness. So fucking wet. Always so wet for me. Her hips bucked against my hand. "Need you inside," she begged, her voice cracking. "Please, mommy... fuck me..."
I lifted my head from her breast, leaving the nipple red and glistening. I met her frantic gaze, seeing my own fierce need reflected back. My fingers pushed inside her, sinking deep into that tight, molten heat. She cried out, head thumping back against the tile. I curled my fingers, finding that rough spot, and began a ruthless rhythm – deep, hard thrusts that made her thighs tremble and her cries turn into breathless whimpers.
My thumb found her clit, swollen and exposed. I pressed down hard, circling it with bruising pressure in time with the pistoning of my fingers inside her cunt. Her body bowed like a drawn bowstring. "That's it," I growled against her ear, my voice rough with exertion and lust, water spraying into my mouth. "Take it. Take your husband's fingers. Cum for me, wife. Show me how much you fucking love it."
Her response was immediate, violent. A scream tore from her throat, raw and ragged, echoing in the steamy enclosure. Her pussy clenched around my fingers like a vise, pulsing rhythmically, squeezing so tight it was almost painful. Hot liquid gushed, washing over my hand, mixing with the shower spray as her body convulsed against the tiles, her legs giving way. I held her up, my arm locked around her waist, fingers still buried deep inside her, milking the last shuddering spasms from her core.
Her weight sagged against me, utterly spent, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. The water poured over us, washing away the evidence of her release, but the scent of sex, lavender, and that dark jasmine hung thick in the humid air. In the steamed-up mirror across the room, a flicker of movement caught my eye – not our reflections, but something deeper within the glass, eyes like dying embers watching from the fog. Watching her. A cold shiver, unrelated to the water, traced my spine. My daughter. My wife. My impossible, consuming fire. And something else... something ancient and hungry, drawn to the power she barely understood. I tightened my hold on her trembling body, pressing a kiss, hard and possessive, to her wet temple. Mine. Whatever she was, she was mine.