Chapter 10: Wet Confessions
The spray from the showerhead was a needle-sharp percussion on Rohan’s back, washing away the sweat and exhaustion of the session. He’d pushed harder today, spurred on by the memory of her arms around him on the swing, by the need to feel less like dead weight in her lap. His muscles trembled with a pleasant fatigue.
Through the cloud of steam, he watched her. Priya was under the adjacent shower, her head thrown back as water slicked her dark hair against her scalp and streamed down the defined lines of her body. The sight of her was still a jolt. It wasn't just that she was fit; it was the casual power in her frame. The way her shoulder muscles shifted as she ran her hands through her hair, the clear definition of her biceps as she reached for the shampoo bottle.
His eyes lingered there, on the curve of that muscle, remembering the feel of it under his hands when she’d lifted him. He was staring, he knew he was staring, but the steam and the water felt like a veil, granting him a moment of stolen, guilty observation.
The veil tore apart.
She turned her head, her gaze cutting through the mist and locking directly onto his. There was no surprise in her eyes. Only a sharp, knowing assessment. He flinched, quickly looking down at the tiles, his face burning hotter than the water.
He heard the squeak of her faucet being turned, the sudden silence from her shower stall. His heart hammered against his ribs. Footsteps, quiet on the wet floor, approached.
Before he could form a thought, a hand closed around his wrist. Her grip was firm, unyielding. She pulled his hand away from his body and guided it through the curtain of water until his trembling fingertips made contact with her skin.
It was her bicep. Solid, wet, and cool. The muscle was hard under his touch, a living sculpture.
“You can touch,” her voice was low, almost drowned by the water, but he heard every word. “If you ask nicely.”
He tried to pull back, a reflex of sheer embarrassment, but her grip on his wrist tightened, pressing his palm flat against her. His fingers splayed, feeling the incredible density. He was breathing in shallow, ragged pants, the steam suddenly feeling suffocating.
Then she moved. In one fluid motion, she spun him, his back hitting the cool, tiled wall with a soft thud. The air left his lungs in a rush. She crowded into his space, her body not touching his but caging him in, one hand still pinning his wrist beside his head, the other braced against the wall near his shoulder.
Water cascaded over both of them, plastering her hair to her neck, beading on her eyelashes. Her expressive brown eyes were dark, intense, holding his completely captive.
“Go on,” she murmured, her voice a rough whisper. “Ask.”
His mind was a white-noise void. All he could feel was the chill of the tiles, the heat of her proximity, and the terrifying, thrilling firmness of her arm under his shaking hand. The words were a humiliating lump in his throat. This was wrong, it was inverted, it was…
“Priya…” he choked out, a plea and a protest.
She leaned in closer, until her lips were almost brushing his ear. “No. Use your words, Rohan.”
He swallowed, the sound loud in his ears. The memory of the balcony, of being called her ‘good boy,’ flashed through him, a confusing mix of shame and a deep, unsettling craving. His fingers twitched against her skin.
“Can I…” he started, his voice cracking. He tried again, forcing the words out into the humid, intimate space between them. “Can I touch you?”
For a long moment, she just looked at him, her gaze searching his face, reading the surrender in his eyes. A slow, triumphant smile touched her lips. It wasn't cruel. It was possessive.
She released his wrist. Her hand slid from the wall to his hip, her thumb stroking a slow, deliberate circle on his wet skin.
“Yes,” she said, simply. “You can.”
His hand, now free, didn’t move. It stayed there, pressed against the proof of her strength, while his own legs felt dangerously weak. The water beat down, and he understood, with a clarity that was as terrifying as it was exhilarating, that nothing was the same. The rules had been rewritten, and she was waiting for him to learn them.