Chapter 13: The Aftermath
The water ran in thick, hissing streams down Mia's back, tracing the curve of her shoulders, the dip of her spine, the swell of her ass before it splashed against the tile floor. The steam wrapped around them like a second skin, and Jake's hands were on her before she could turn, sliding up her slick arms, gripping her shoulders with a firm, possessive pressure.
The heat of his chest met her back, the hard planes of his torso molding against her, and she felt him—thick and heavy, yet soft as a cloud, against the cleft of her ass. He wasn't gentle about it. He didn't pretend it was accidental.
The water sluiced over them both, and Jake's breath was warm against the nape of her neck. His hands stayed on her shoulders, thumbs pressing into the tight knots of muscle just below her ears, and she let out a surprised hum.
"You going to give me a massage?" she asked, tilting her head back until it rested against his collarbone.
"Do you want a massage?"
She stretched the word out, letting it roll off her tongue like honey. "Maaayyybe."
His laugh was a low rumble against her spine. "I'll take that as a yes."
His hands moved before she could say another word, sliding down from her shoulders to the blades of her back, pressing firmly into the muscle there. The water made everything slick, his palms gliding over her skin with a friction that was just shy of too much. He worked in long, slow strokes, from the base of her spine up to the nape of her neck, thumbs tracing the ridges of her vertebrae like he was memorizing the map of her.
She pushed back against him, a wordless demand for more pressure, and he obliged, digging deeper into the knots that had settled there from a night of tension and tangled limbs. She moaned, low and easy, letting her head fall forward so the water could sluice down the back of her neck.
"Right there," she breathed. "Fuck, Jake. Right there."
He found the spot where her shoulders met her neck and worked it in slow circles, his thumbs pressing down until she felt the knot give and release. The sound she made was positively indecent, and he felt a swell of pride that had nothing to do with his cock and everything to do with the way her body trusted him.
He traced his hands down the length of her back again, this time slower, letting his fingers drift to the sides of her ribcage. The water had made her skin impossibly slick, and his hands slid along her sides like they were gliding over glass. He brushed the outer swell of her breasts, featherlight, barely there, and felt her breath catch.
"Jake," she warned, her voice teasing.
He did it again, more deliberate this time, dragging his palms up her sides until the heels of his hands caught the curve of her breasts. She arched into the touch, a small, involuntary motion that pressed her back harder against his chest.
"Is this okay?" he asked, his voice low in her ear.
"Shut up," she said. "Keep going."
He laughed, a warm puff of air against her neck, and slid his hands back down. Up and down her sides, over and over, each pass brushing the sensitive outer curve of her breasts, each stroke making her squirm a little more. Her nipples were pebbled and tight, visible even in the steam, and he wanted nothing more than to turn her around and take one in his mouth. But he didn't. He kept his hands where they were, tracing her sides, letting her chase the sensation.
She reached back and twisted the water knob, cranking it as hot as it would go. The water turned scalding, reddening her skin and his, and she let out a gasp that was half pain, half pleasure.
"Jesus, Mia," he muttered. "You trying to cook us?"
"I like it hot," she said, her voice breathy.
He didn't argue. He pulled her back against his chest, her spine fitting against his sternum like a puzzle piece, and slid his hands around to the front of her. He started at her collarbones, tracing the delicate ridge of bone with his thumbs, feeling the flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat.
She was torn, he could feel it. She wanted to lean back into him, to let him hold her up, but his hands were moving lower, and every instinct in her body was screaming at her to arch forward into the touch. She hovered in between, a taut wire of tension, caught between two exquisite possibilities.
He took his time. He dragged his fingers down her sternum, over the smooth, slick plane of her chest, until the pads of his thumbs brushed the undercurve of her breasts. She let out a shaky breath, and he watched her nipples tighten further, if that was even possible.
"Jake," she whispered, her voice ragged.
"Hmm?" He circled the underside of her breasts with his fingertips, not quite touching the sensitive peaks.
"You're a tease."
"I learned from the best."
She made a sound of frustration, and he grinned against her neck. Then he gave in.
His hands closed over her breasts, full and heavy and slick with soap and water. He kneaded them slowly, letting the weight of them settle in his palms, feeling her nipples press against his fingers like small, hard pearls. She let out a long, low moan and shoved backward against him, pressing her ass against his hips, grinding against him.
He was soft. She noticed it. She couldn't not notice it, the way his body pressed against her without any of the urgency she'd grown used to. He wasn't hard. He was just there, warm and solid and present, completely focused on her. It was startling, and she found herself weirdly moved by it. He wasn't thinking about his own pleasure. He was thinking about her.
Her walls twisted with something between affection and raw, consuming want.
His thumbs found her nipples, circling them slowly, teasing the tight peaks until she gasped. The water cascaded over his hands, over her breasts, and he used the slickness to slide his palms in broad, circular motions, pressing her breasts together, tracing the swell, catching the beaded tips between his fingers and rolling them until she was trembling against him.
Soap suds gathered in the hollow of her collarbone, between her breasts, and he chased them with his fingers, spreading the lather over her slick skin. He washed her like she was something precious, something fragile, his hands moving with a reverence that made her chest ache.
He washed her like she was something precious, something fragile, his hands moving with a reverence that made her chest ache. And then he lowered his mouth to her neck.
It wasn't a bite. It wasn't even a nip. It was just his lips, warm and soft, pressing against the slick curve where her neck met her shoulder. He kissed her there once, slow and deliberate, like he was tasting the water on her skin. Then again, a little higher, just below her ear. Then again, trailing along the sensitive column of her throat, each kiss a soft, wet press of his mouth that made her shiver despite the scalding heat.
"Jake," she breathed, her voice catching on his name.
He didn't answer. He just kept kissing her neck, trailing his lips along the line of her jaw, down the side of her throat, back to the sensitive spot behind her ear. His hands never stopped moving, kneading her breasts, rolling her nipples between his fingers, spreading the soap suds over her slick skin. He was everywhere at once, a warm, solid presence that surrounded her completely.
She reached up and tangled her fingers in his wet hair, pulling him closer, guiding his mouth where she wanted it. He obeyed, kissing down her neck, over her shoulder, leaving a trail of heat in his wake. His lips found the spot where her neck met her collarbone and lingered there, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses that made her knees go weak.
She felt him pulse against her, the thick length of him swelling a little more, pressing insistently against the cleft of her ass. He wasn't trying to fuck her. He wasn't even trying to grind against her. He was just there, hard and hot and present, his body telling her exactly what he wanted even as his hands and mouth worshipped her.
"Jake," she said, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. "If you don't turn me around and kiss me right now, I'm going to do it myself."
His hands stilled on her breasts. For a heartbeat, she thought she'd won. Then his fingers tightened, just barely, a warning pressure that made her breath catch.
"No."
The word was quiet. Firm. It landed in the steam between them like a stone dropped into still water.
Mia froze. She felt the heat of him behind her, the solid wall of his chest, the insistent press of his half-hard cock against the cleft of her ass. He wasn't hard. Not fully. He was still soft, still heavy, still completely in control of himself, and that fact hit her like a shock of cold water.
She wanted to turn around. Her body was screaming at her to turn around, to face him, to take his mouth with hers and demand he finish what he'd started. But his hands were on her hips now, holding her in place with an easy, unbreakable grip, and she found herself obeying the word without question.
"Good girl," he murmured, and the praise sent a thrill down her spine that settled somewhere deep and hot between her thighs.
She bristled. "Did you just—"
"I did." His hands slid up her arms, over her shoulders, and guided her around to face the wall. "Now be quiet and let me take care of you."
Her breath hitched. The wall was cool against her palms, the tile slick with condensation. She could feel him behind her, his chest pressing against her back, his hands moving to her hair. He gathered the long, wet strands in his fists, twisting them gently, tilting her head back.
"You're going to wash my hair?" she asked, her voice breathless.
"I'm going to take care of you," he corrected. "All of you."
He squeezed shampoo into his palm and worked it into her roots, his fingers massaging her scalp with slow, firm pressure. Her eyes fluttered shut. He was methodical, thorough, his fingertips tracing circles over her crown, working the suds through the length of her hair with a patience that made her want to melt into the floor. She could feel him against her ass, still half-hard, still heavy, but he wasn't pushing. He wasn't grinding. He was just there, a steady presence, washing her hair like she was the most important thing in the world.
"God," she breathed, her head lolling back against his chest. "Where did you learn to do all this?"
His laugh rumbled against her spine. "I've been imagining taking care of you for years, Mia. I just never thought I'd get the chance."
She laughed, a soft, breathy sound, and let herself lean into him. His fingers found the knot at the base of her skull and worked it loose, and she felt the tension drain out of her body in waves. She was putty in his hands, pliant and warm and utterly, beautifully claimed.
"Good girl," he said again, and this time she didn't bristle. She just moaned, a low, involuntary sound that made him smile against her neck.
She felt his cock twitch against her, thickening just slightly more, and she knew he was enjoying this as much as she was. He was hard for her. He was always hard for her now. But he was holding back, letting her feel his control, showing her that he could give her pleasure without taking his own.
And she was thrilled. More than thrilled. She was electrified, a live wire humming with want, and she'd never felt so completely, utterly owned.
But she wasn't about to let him have the last word.
She tilted her head back, looking up at him through the steam, a slow, wicked smile curving her lips. "You think I'm a good girl?"
His hands stilled in her hair. The suds were still slick against her scalp, his fingers tangled in the wet strands, and she felt the air shift between them. The silence stretched, thick and charged, and she watched his hazel eyes darken.
"I know you are," he said, his voice low.
She hummed, a teasing sound. "That's a bold assumption. I've never been anyone's good girl before."
His grip tightened at the base of her hair, a firm, possessive pressure that made her breath stutter. He tugged, just barely, tilting her head back further until her throat was exposed, the vulnerable line of it gleaming with water. She let him. She wanted him to.
"You're MY good girl," he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, his voice a low, rough rasp that made her knees actually buckle. She felt his other arm band around her waist, hauling her upright against his chest, holding her there like she was his to hold. "Do you want to be MY good girl?"
The question landed somewhere deep and primal, a hot pulse between her thighs that made her clench around nothing. It wasn't about submission. It wasn't about control. It was about belonging. It was about being seen, being claimed, being his in a way she'd never been anyone's before.
"Yes," she breathed, the word slipping out before she could stop it.
His laugh was a warm, satisfied sound against her neck. "Good girl."
She felt the praise like a physical touch, a hot stroke along her g-spot even though he hadn't touched her there. Her pulse hammered, and she pressed her ass back against him, feeling the thick, heavy weight of his cock now fully hard, wedged insistently against her slick skin.
"Jake," she whimpered.
"Shhh." He loosened his grip in her hair, gentling his touch, and guided her forward so the water could rinse the suds from her locks. "Let me finish."
He worked the shampoo through her hair with slow, methodical strokes, his fingertips massaging her scalp in circles that made her eyes roll back. He rinsed her thoroughly, the hot water sluicing over her head, down her spine, and when he was done, he pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck, soft and reverent.
"All clean," he murmured.
She turned in his arms, finally, and the sight of him nearly undid her. His hair was plastered to his forehead, dark and dripping. Water streamed down his chest, over the scratches she'd left, catching the light.
Water streamed down his chest, over the scratches she'd left, catching the light like rivulets of gold. He looked like something carved from stone and heat, every plane of his body sharp and gleaming, and she wanted to trace every inch of him with her tongue.
But she didn't.
She tilted her head, a slow, deliberate motion, and let her gaze drag down his body with an unhurried insolence that made his cock twitch. The water sluiced over his abs, over the V of his hips, over the thick, heavy length of him, and she let her eyes linger there just long enough to make him shift his weight.
"See something you like?" His voice was a low rasp, rough with want, and it vibrated through the steam between them.
She hummed, letting her gaze drift back up his body, taking her sweet time. "Maybe. But you know, I can do this too, you know. The whole teasing routine. I learn fast."
She saw the flicker in his eyes, the challenge catching like a spark in dry grass. Before she could blink, he moved. His hands were flat against the tile on either side of her head, caging her in, his body a wall of heat that pressed her back against the cool tile. The water cascaded down his shoulders, his chest, dripping from his jaw as he stared down at her.
He didn't say a word. He didn't have to. His eyes did the talking for him, dark and hungry, a silent dare that made her pulse thunder in her throat.
Her breath caught. The air between them was thick, charged, hot enough to boil. His arms were bracketed around her, carved and defined, veins mapping the path from his wrists to his shoulders, and she could see the flex of every muscle as he held himself there, motionless and wordlessly, he watched her.
"You talk a big game," he said, his voice a low rumble that she felt in her chest. "Let's see you back it up."
She smirked, but it was a shaky thing, her bravado already cracking at the edges. Because up close like this, with the water plastering his hair to his forehead and beading on his shoulders, he was overwhelming. He was all broad, gleaming planes of muscle and heat, and she had no idea where to start.
Her hands lifted before her brain caught up, landing on his forearms. The muscles there were thick, cable-like, and the water made his skin feel like silk stretched over steel. She worked the soap between her palms, building a lather, then spread it over his arms in long, sweeping strokes. She watched her hands glide over his skin, watched the suds cling to the fine dusting of hair on his forearms, and she felt her mouth go dry even as the steam filled her lungs with moisture.
Her tongue darted out, wetting her lips, and she hated herself for it because he was watching her. She could feel his eyes on the top of her head, tracking every move, and when she glanced up, he was smiling. That smile wasn't the easy, goofy grin he wore when he was joking around campus, or the soft one he gave her when she woke up tangled in his arms. This was something else. Something knowing. Something that said I know exactly what this is doing to you.
She looked away, back to his arms, and kept washing. Her fingers circled his wrists, traced the thick veins that mapped the path to his hands, and she felt her thighs press together involuntarily. He was so solid. So real. So utterly male in a way that made her feel small and delicate despite her own athletic build.
She moved up to his shoulders, and that was a mistake. His shoulders were enormous, meaty slabs of muscle that spanned wider than her entire torso. She had to reach up to wash them, had to stretch her arms and press her chest against his in the process, and she felt her nipples pebble against his skin. Her hands worked the soap into the rounded deltoids, over the thick trapezius muscles that sloped down to his neck, and she swallowed hard. Her thighs clenched so tight she thought she might cramp.
"If you keep making that face," he said, his voice amused, "I'm going to think you're not enjoying this."
"I'm enjoying it," she managed, her voice coming out breathy and strained. "Just... concentrating."
He hummed, a low, knowing sound, and she felt his chest vibrate beneath her palms as she dragged her hands down to it.
And oh, his chest. She'd seen it dozens of times. She'd licked it, bitten it, scratched it, laid her head on it. But seeing it like this, soap-slick and gleaming, every ridge and plane carved by the water, was something else entirely. She spread her palms flat over his pectorals, feeling the thick slabs of muscle flex under her touch, and her movements turned jerky, erratic. She lost the rhythm she'd been building. Her fingers stumbled over his skin, catching on the hard nubs of his nipples, and she felt the heat rushing to her face.
She could feel his gaze on her, heavy and knowing, and she refused to look up. She couldn't. If she looked up and saw that smile, she'd lose whatever composure she had left. So she kept her eyes fixed on his chest, her hands moving in circles that were growing sloppier by the second, lathering the soap over his skin like she was trying to memorize every inch of it.
"Careful," he murmured. "You're getting sloppy."
"I'm being thorough," she shot back, but her voice cracked on the word thorough, and she felt him chuckle. She felt it in his chest, in the ripple of muscle beneath her palms, and she wanted to die, or live... Or both.
She moved lower, to his abs. His stomach was a washboard of hard, defined muscle, the kind that made you want to run your tongue along every ridge. She pressed her hands flat against his lower belly, felt the muscles jump and flutter under her touch, and her breathing went shallow. She was panting. She was literally panting, her chest rising and falling in stuttering rhythms, and she couldn't stop.
The soap suds traced the lines of his abdominals, finding the grooves between each muscle and filling them. She followed the suds with her fingers, dragging through the grooves, feeling the hard, ridged texture of him under her slick palms. She felt his cock twitch against her hip, thick and hot and fully hard now, and her own hips jerked involuntarily, pressing toward him.
"Careful," he said again, his voice lower, rougher.
"I'm fine," she lied.
She moved her hands to his sides, sliding them around his waist, feeling the muscles of his obliques bunch under her fingers. Then she dipped lower, her fingers grazing the sharp cut of his hip bones, the V that disappeared into the thatch of dark hair below his navel. She traced the line of that V, watching the water sluice over his skin, and she felt her mouth water. She actually felt her mouth fill with saliva, and she had to swallow hard to keep from drooling like some kind of starving animal.
And then she reached his groin.
There it was. His cock, thick and heavy, standing proud from its smooth, bare skin. It was flushed and angry, the head a deep, swollen red, beaded with pre-cum that the water kept washing away. Her hands hovered over it for a moment, trembling, and she saw his smile widen. It was a Cheshire smile, slow and sharp and entirely too knowing, and it made something hot and possessive curl in her gut.
She arched an eyebrow and let her hands drift to his inner thighs instead.
His smile flickered. Just barely. Just a fraction of a second where his composure cracked and something raw and hungry flashed in his eyes. She saw it. She savored it. And then she let her hands wander, tracing the slick, soapy skin of his inner thighs, the sensitive hollows where his legs met his pelvis. She touched everywhere. She touched his hips, his obliques, the base of his pelvis where his cock rose from its root. She touched the soft skin of his balls, not quite grazing them, hovering just above. She traced circles around his shaft, never touching it, each pass making his jaw tighten and his cock jump toward her like a compass seeking north.
"See how I'm a thorough washer?" she asked, her voice dripping with false innocence. "I'm covering everything."
"Everything," he repeated, the word coming out strained. "Except certain things."
"Certain things?" She feigned shock. "What could you possibly mean?"
She watched his throat work as he swallowed. She watched his hands flex at his sides, and she knew he was fighting every instinct to grab her, to press her against the wall, to shove his cock inside her and fuck her until she couldn't remember her own name. But he didn't. He stood there, jaw clenched, eyes dark and hungry, and he let her tease him.
The more she washed him, the more his arousal grew. She watched it happen, watched his cock thicken and lengthen, watched the pre-cum bead at the tip and run down the length of his shaft, diluted by the water. And the more evident his arousal became, the jerkier her movements grew. Her hands stuttered over his skin. Her breathing grew ragged. She forgot what she was doing halfway through a stroke and had to start over.
He smiled.
That smile was pure, wordless victory. It was the smug, knowing grin of a man who was being tortured and was enjoying every second of it. He watched her with heavy-lidded eyes, watched her hands shake as she traced the line of his hip, watched her bite her lip as she swiped her thumbs through the tiny patch of hair below his navel, watched her breathe in shallow, desperate gasps as she hovered just above his cock without touching it.
"You're getting worse at this," he observed.
"Shut up."
"I'm not complaining. It's entertaining."
Her hands stilled on his thighs. She looked up at him, her eyes bright and defiant, her hair plastered to her temples, her lips parted and flushed. She looked utterly wrecked. She was utterly wrecked. And she knew it. She was losing this game, and she knew it.
But she wasn't going to admit it.
She pushed her fingers into the crease of his hip, feeling the taut flex of muscle there, and she watched his cock twitch violently, slapping against his lower belly. She did it again, and again, each pass making him harder, more swollen, more desperate. And still she didn't touch him. Not his shaft. Not his balls. She feathered her fingers over every inch of skin around them, teasing him relentlessly, and watched his smile crack at the edges.
She pulled her hands back. Straightened. Water streamed off her shoulders, off the hard peaks of her nipples, off the trembling line of her thighs. She didn't touch his cock. She didn't even look at it. She looked at his eyes.
The feral hunger there made her breath catch. It wasn't the goofy Jake who made her laugh at frat parties. It wasn't the tender Jake who whispered I'm glad it's you. This was the Jake who had buried himself inside her last night and told her she was his. This was something ancient, something that had been waiting years for permission.
She could feel her own eyes answering him. She knew what he saw: the blown pupils, the flush across her chest, the way her lips were parted and wet. She was feral too. She was starving.
She was feral too. She was starving.
The steam curled between them, thick and heavy, and for a long, stretched heartbeat neither of them moved. The only sound was the hiss of the water against the tile, the drum of their breathing, the frantic skip of her pulse that she was certain he could hear.
Then Jake's mouth curved. Slow. Deliberate. "Think you won?"
Mia's chin lifted. Her eyes never left his. "Yes."
The lie came out smoother than she expected, wrapped in silk and defiance. She watched his pupils dilate, watched the flicker of something dark and amused pass through his gaze, and she felt her stomach flip.
He didn't argue. He just moved.
His hand came up, cupping her jaw, tilting her head to the side with a gentleness that made her breath stutter. And then he pressed his lips to the curve of her neck, right over the frantic pulse point that was hammering like a trapped bird against her skin.
She felt him. Not just his lips, warm and soft against her wet flesh, but him. The steady, deliberate rhythm of his heart, thudding through his chest where it pressed against her shoulder. Heavy. Voluminous. A rolling, bass drum beat that was fast, but not frantic. Controlled.
Her own heart was a hummingbird, a wild, stuttering flutter that she could feel in her throat, her temples, between her thighs. She knew he could feel it too, the frantic vibration of it against his lips, betraying every word she'd just said.
She bit her lip. Hard.
The pain was sharp and grounding, and she squeezed her eyes shut, fighting to slow the frantic drumming. She couldn't. Every second his mouth lingered on her neck, her heart raced faster, thrumming with a wildness she couldn't contain.
His lips curved against her skin. He knew.
"Hummingbird," he murmured, the word vibrating against her pulse point. "My girl's got a hummingbird heart."
She wanted to argue. She wanted to push him away, to tell him he was wrong, that she was calm, that she'd won. But his mouth was still pressed to her neck, his hand still cradling her jaw, and her voice had dissolved into something useless and small.
She bit her lip harder. Tasted copper. Didn't let a single sound escape.
The word hung in the steam like a brand, soft and possessive, and she felt it settle into her bones. She held her breath, waiting for him to press further, but he didn't. He pulled back, his hand still cradling her jaw, his eyes searching hers with a warmth that made her chest ache.
"Can I ask you something?" he said, his voice dropping lower, rougher.
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
"We've made love a few times now." His thumb traced the line of her cheekbone, slow and deliberate. "It's been incredible. Every second of it. You know that."
She nodded again.
"But you know what I really want?"
Her breath caught. The question hung in the air between them, thick and charged. She bit her lip harder, felt the sting of it, and didn't dare let it go.
"I wanna fuck," he said, the word landing like a physical blow, hot and raw and unapologetic. "Broad daylight. I want to put you in the middle of my bed and fuck you through it. I want to hear you, Mia. I want you loud and animated and completely out of your mind." His gaze burned into hers. "Some of that loud, animated sex, you know what I mean? The kind where the whole floor knows exactly what I'm doing to you."
Her thighs pressed together under the spray.
"Sound acceptable?"
She couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. The steam was too thick, his eyes too dark, the promise in his voice too devastating. She just nodded, a jerky, desperate motion, and felt his smile curve against her temple.
Her nod was barely a movement, a jerky tilt of her chin that she hoped read as confidence. But Jake saw through it. He always did. That smile against her temple widened, a silent acknowledgment of the game she was playing, the game they were both playing.
She moved before she could second-guess herself. Her arms looped around his neck, her fingers tangling in the wet hair at his nape, and she pressed her body against his. The water sluiced over them both, and she could feel him everywhere, the heavy press of his cock against her belly, the slick glide of his chest against her breasts, the solid wall of muscle that was Jake, all of him, surrounding her.
"There," she said, her voice a breathless challenge against his lips. "Now what?"
She expected him to flex. She expected the strain of muscle, the grunt of effort, the way a man braced himself before lifting a weight he wasn't sure he could handle. She'd done this dance before, with boys back home, with the occasional frat guy who thought he could impress her with a party trick.
But Jake didn't flex.
He didn't brace.
He just moved.
His hands slid down her slick back, one hooking under the curve of her thigh, the other pressing flat against the small of her back. And then he lifted her, one effortless, fluid motion that made her gasp. Her legs wrapped around his waist on pure instinct, her arms tightening around his neck, and she stared down at him with wide, startled eyes.
He wasn't straining. His jaw wasn't clenched. His biceps weren't bulging with effort. He was just holding her, one arm banded across her lower back, the other supporting her full weight like she was nothing. Like she was air. Like she was a sack of feathers he'd decided to carry into the bedroom without a second thought.
"Holy shit," she breathed.
His grin was slow and devastating. "What?"
"You're not even trying."
He shrugged, the motion rolling through his shoulders, and she felt the muscles shift beneath her thighs. "You're light."
She was not light. She was an athlete, a cheerleader with years of conditioning, a solid hundred and thirty pounds of lean, toned muscle. She'd been lifted before, tossed in stunts and pyramids, caught and thrown with precision. But this was different. This was effortless. This was Jake holding her like she weighed nothing, his eyes dark and warm and fixed on her face, his cock pressed thick and hard against her soaked cunt.
She felt a fresh surge of wetness flood between her thighs, hot and embarrassing and completely involuntary. She clenched around nothing, her inner muscles fluttering with the need to be filled.
"Put me down," she said, her voice a breathless whisper that sounded nothing like a demand.
He didn't. His hands tightened, one palm sliding up the back of her thigh, fingers digging into the firm swell of her ass, and he held her there, suspended in the steam.
The water pounded down around them, hot and relentless, and she could feel the sheer impossible strength of him. He wasn't straining. He wasn't trembling. He was just holding her, his cock sliding along her slick, swollen folds like it belonged there, the thick heat of him pressing against her clit with every tiny shift of his hips.
"Put you down?" he repeated, his voice a low rumble against her throat. "I don't think I will."
She should have protested. She should have laughed, pushed at his chest, told him he was being ridiculous. But her voice had abandoned her, swallowed by the heat and the steam and the overwhelming reality of being held like this, like she weighed nothing, like she was something precious he had no intention of letting go.
His hand slid up her thigh, fingers digging into the firm swell of her ass, and he shifted his grip. She felt the muscles in his back ripple beneath her arms, felt the raw, coiled power in every inch of him, and she bit her lip hard enough to taste copper again.
"Jake," she managed, her voice a wrecked, breathless thing. "The water—"
His answer was to reach past her and twist the knob. The water died with a hiss, the sudden silence ringing in her ears, and the steam began to thin around them. He stood there, holding her in the middle of the shower, water dripping from his hair, his shoulders, the hard planes of his chest. Droplets clung to his lashes, and his eyes were dark and hungry and fixed on her face.
"Better?" he asked, his voice rough.
She couldn't answer. Couldn't form words. She just stared at him, her heart hammering against her ribs, her thighs trembling where they were wrapped around his waist. He was carrying her like this. He was holding her suspended in mid-air, his cock pressing against her slick, bare cunt, and he wasn't even breathing hard.
He stepped out of the shower, water sluicing off them both, leaving a trail of wet footprints across the tile floor. He carried her into the bedroom, to the rumpled sheets of the bed they'd already christened, and she expected him to toss her there.