Chapter 7: Showers
The steam was the first thing to greet him, thick and carrying the sharp, clean scent of Alex’s cheap pine tar soap. It clung to the cool pastel tiles of the bathroom, a jungle of humidity in the small space. Angel stood under the spray, his head bowed, letting the hot water beat down on the nape of his neck, washing away the last gritty traces of the roadside dust. The water sluiced over his shoulders, down the smooth plane of his back, tracing the delicate curve of his waist and the swell of his hips. His skin, always pale, was flushed a tender pink from the heat.
He opened his eyes as the bathroom door clicked open, the sound muffled by the drumming water. The frosted glass of the shower door revealed a tall, blurry silhouette. A moment later, it slid open, and Alex stepped in.
The space, never intended for two, especially not when one of them was built like her, suddenly became incredibly intimate. Water splashed over the rim, spotting the bathmat. Alex didn’t seem to notice or care. Her black eyes scanned him, a slow, possessive appraisal that made a fresh wave of heat bloom under Angel’s skin, unrelated to the shower.
“Make room, gorgeous,” she said, her voice a low rumble against the spray.
Angel shifted back, pressing against the cool tiles as Alex moved under the water. She tipped her head back, soaking her black wolf-cut until it was a slick helm against her skull. Water cascaded over the sharp lines of her collarbones, down the firm muscle of her chest and stomach. The dark, intricate tattoos on her arms and torso seemed to come alive, the ink looking bruised and deep against her wet, flushed skin. A fine, dark trail of hair led from her navel down, and her legs were dusted with it. She was wiry and solid, a stark contrast to his own hairless, softer form.
He loved the contrast. It made him feel delicate, chosen.
“You’re staring,” Alex said without opening her eyes, a smirk playing on her lips.
“You’re… taking all the hot water,” Angel murmured, his voice barely audible over the shower.
That got her eyes open. She looked down at him, water droplets caught in her dark lashes. “Bullshit. This building has infinite hot water. It’s the only good thing about this shithole.” She reached for the soap, lathering her hands. The scent of pine intensified. “Turn around. I’ll get your back.”
It wasn’t a question. Angel obeyed, turning to face the wall. Her hands, strong and roughened, settled on his shoulders. She worked the soap into a lather, starting at his neck, her thumbs pressing into the tight muscles there. He melted under her touch, a soft sigh escaping him.
“Still all tense from the drive?” she asked, her voice closer now, her breath warm against his wet skin.
“A little,” he admitted. “And from before. With those guys.”
Her hands stilled for a second. “What about them?”
“Just… the attention. It was a lot.” He felt foolish saying it. She’d handled it, like she always did.
Her hands resumed their motion, sliding down his spine, soapy and firm. “They were idiots. But you were incredible. My little expert.” Her tone was teasing, but there was a bedrock of genuine pride in it. “Watching you tell that fucker to stand on the wrench… I almost came right there on the asphalt.”
Angel flushed, glad he was facing away. “Alex.”
“What? It’s true. competence is a hell of a turn-on. Who knew?” Her hands slid lower, over the swell of his buttocks, possessive and lingering. “You’re all smooth back here, too. Like a pearl.”
He squirmed, both embarrassed and intensely aroused by her crude, worshipful words. Her hands moved around his hips, slick with soap, skimming the sensitive skin of his lower stomach. She pressed herself against his back, her body a solid, hot line against him. He could feel the damp hair on her legs against his smooth thighs, the firm pressure of her stomach and chest.
“You know what I was thinking about the whole rest of that drive?” she whispered directly into his ear, her voice dropping to a gravelly register that went straight to his core. Her soapy hand slid lower, her fingers tracing through the neat, hairless patch between his legs before cupping him boldly. He jerked against her, a sharp intake of breath hissing between his teeth.
“Wh-what?” he stammered, his hands flattening against the tiles for support.
“I was thinking about how fucking good you looked on your knees by that car,” she growled. “All focused and dirty. And I was thinking about how much better you’d look on your knees right here.”
She turned him around to face her. The water plastered his platinum hair to his forehead, streamed into his eyes. She looked like a predator, water sluicing over the hardened planes of her body, her black eyes blazing with intent. She slid a hand behind his neck, pulling him into a kiss. It was nothing like the gentle one in the car. This was all hunger and possession, a clash of teeth and tongue that stole his breath. She tasted of toothpaste and the cigarette she’d smoked right before coming in.
When she broke the kiss, they were both breathing heavily. “You’re so clean now,” she observed, her gaze dipping down his body. “All that grease and dirt, gone. But I kinda miss it. proved you’re not as fragile as you look.”
She reached down between them, her fingers finding him again, but this time her touch was different. It wasn't just a caress; it was a precise, knowing pressure that made his knees buckle. He gasped, his head falling forward against her shoulder.
“You ready for me?” she asked, her voice thick.
He could only nod, shuddering as her fingers worked him with a deft, practiced rhythm. The world narrowed to the steam, the drumming water, and the overwhelming sensation of her hands on him.
“Use your words, Angel,” she commanded, nipping at his earlobe.
“Yes,” he choked out. “Please, Alex. Yes.”
With a grunt of satisfaction, she turned off the water. The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by their ragged breaths and the drip-drip-drip from the showerhead. She grabbed a large, soft towel from the rack and wrapped it around him, rubbing him down with a roughness that was paradoxically gentle. She did the same to herself with brisk, efficient movements, barely drying herself before tossing the damp towel aside.
She took his hand and led him, dripping and pliant, into the bedroom. The evening sun cast long, amber shadows across the rumpled sheets. The air was cooler here, raising goosebumps on his skin. He stood by the bed, trembling slightly, as Alex went to the closet.
She came back with the harness, the dark leather contrasting sharply with her skin. She stepped into it with the ease of long practice, tightening the straps with a series of purposeful clicks. The sight of it, of her fitting herself into the apparatus with such focused intent, always sent a jolt of pure, electric anticipation through him. It was a transformation. It was the physical manifestation of the power she held over him, the power he willingly gave her.
She approached him, the strap-on a stark, silicone promise. She placed her hands on his hips and guided him backward until his knees hit the edge of the mattress. He sat, then lay back, his dark blue eyes huge as he watched her loom over him.
She knelt on the bed, straddling his hips, leaning down to cage him in. She didn’t rush. She kissed him again, slower this time, deep and explorative. Her hands mapped his body, rediscovering the familiar territory of his toned stomach, the dip of his waist, the thick softness of his thighs.
“You’re so beautiful,” she breathed against his mouth, the words so uncharacteristically tender that it made his chest ache. “My beautiful boy.” Then her voice hardened again, edged with that familiar, thrilling dominance. “And you’re all mine.”
He whimpered as she prepared him, her touch firm and sure. The anticipation was a live wire under his skin. When she finally, slowly, pushed into him, it was with a controlled pressure that stole the air from his lungs. His eyes fluttered shut, a ragged moan torn from his throat.
“Look at me,” she ordered, her voice strained with her own effort to go slow.
He forced his eyes open, meeting her intense black gaze. She was watching him, reading every flicker of sensation on his face as she began to move. Her rhythm was relentless, a steady, deep pounding that matched the frantic beating of his heart. She leaned forward, bracing herself on one arm, her other hand tangling in his wet hair.
“This what you needed?” she grunted, her breath hot on his face. “After all that stress? Needed me to fucking ruin you?”
“Yes,” he gasped, arching his back. “God, Alex, yes.”
“You’re so tight,” she growled, her hips snapping forward with more force. “Always so perfect for me.” Her words were crude, filthy, a litany of ownership and desire that fueled his pleasure as much as her physical actions. She told him what she was going to do to him, what he looked like, how much he belonged to her. He was drowning in it, in her.
His own hands scrambled for purchase on her slick back, fingers digging into the hard muscle. He was close, teetering on the edge, sensations overwhelming him. The feel of her body above him, the smell of her skin and the faint residue of pine soap, the sound of her ragged breathing and the wet, rhythmic slap of their bodies meeting.
“Come on, Angel,” she urged, her pace becoming punishing. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
It was the permission, the absolute certainty in her voice, that shattered him. His whole body seized, a white-hot pleasure exploding behind his eyes. A broken, choked cry was the only sound he could make as he came, spasming around her.
She drove into him through the aftershocks, her own control fraying. Her movements became jerky, frantic. With a final, deep thrust and a guttural curse that was half his name, she stilled, her body shuddering above his.
For a long moment, the only sound was their joint, harsh breathing. She collapsed onto him, her full weight a comforting anchor. He could feel the frantic hammering of her heart against his chest. The leather of the harness was cool and sticky against his skin. He wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in the damp crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of sex and sweat and her.
She shifted after a minute, withdrawing from him with a soft, wet sound. She clumsily unbuckled the harness, letting it fall to the floor with a heavy thud, then rolled onto her back beside him, one arm flung over her eyes.
They lay in silence as the room grew darker. The sweat cooled on their skin. Angel’s muscles felt like liquid, every nerve ending blissfully numb. He turned his head on the pillow to look at her profile in the fading light. The sharp line of her nose, the stubborn set of her jaw, the dark fan of her eyelashes against her cheeks.
He reached out, tracing the lines of the fresh tattoo on her chest, the one he’d watched her get. The skin around it was still slightly raised and pink.
She lowered her arm and turned her head to look at him. Her black eyes were soft, the predator gone, replaced by something infinitely more dangerous: a deep, unwavering devotion.
“You good?” she asked, her voice raspy.
“Perfect,” he whispered.
A slow, lazy smirk tugged at her lips. “Better than changing a tire?”
He managed a weak smile. “A little bit.”
She chuckled, a low, rich sound, and pulled him closer, tucking his head under her chin. He nuzzled into her skin, his body fitting perfectly against the curve of her side. Outside, the city sounds were a distant hum. The tension of the day, the lingering anxiety from the roadside, the intense peak of their coupling—it had all dissolved into this profound, effortless peace.
He knew tomorrow might be different. His social anxiety would likely return, the world would feel too loud again. But here, in the dark, wrapped up in her, there was only safety. She was his protector, his tormentor, his anchor. And he was, completely and utterly, hers.