Chapter 11: Shower Steam and Silk Sheets
The music followed them out the door. Bass thrummed through the walls of the Sig Ep house, rattling the windows, spilling onto the lawn where knots of people stood smoking and laughing and shouting into phones. Maya didn't look at any of them. She kept her eyes forward, her hand in Ryan's, her heels clicking against the concrete path.
"You okay?" Ryan asked.
"Fine."
"You're quiet."
"Just tired."
He squeezed her hand. Didn't push. That was one of the things she liked about him—he never pushed. He accepted what she gave him and asked for nothing more. It was kind. It was patient. It was everything she'd told herself she wanted.
The car was parked three blocks away. A silver sedan, sensible and clean, the kind of car a future lawyer would drive. Ryan opened the passenger door for her. She slid inside. The leather was cold against her thighs.
He got in. Started the engine. Pulled onto the street.
Neither of them spoke.
The streetlights swept across the windshield in steady pulses. Maya watched them without seeing them. Her body was still humming. Still aching. She could feel Jaxon everywhere—his hands on her hips, his breath against her neck, the stretch of him inside her. She could still taste him on her tongue. Could still smell him on her skin.
She pressed her thighs together.
Ryan turned on the radio. Some indie station, low and mellow. A woman singing about lost love and open roads. Maya stared out the window and tried to breathe.
The apartment building was a boxy brick complex on the edge of campus. Ryan parked in his designated spot, killed the engine, and turned to look at her.
"You sure you're okay?"
She smiled. It felt like wearing someone else's face.
"I'm sure."
He kissed her—soft, quick—and got out of the car.
The apartment was exactly as she remembered it. Cramped. Cluttered. A leather couch that had seen better days. A TV blaring muted highlights from a game neither of them cared about. A half-empty pizza box on the coffee table. Beer cans clustered on the counter like a small aluminum army.
"Sit down," Ryan said. "I'll get you some water."
"I'm going to shower."
He paused. Looked at her.
"Now?"
"I just—" She gestured vaguely. "I feel gross. From the party."
"Okay." He nodded. "Towels are in the hall closet."
She walked past him. Down the narrow hallway. Into the bathroom.
The door clicked shut behind her.
She stood there for a moment, back against the wood, eyes closed. Then she reached into the shower and twisted the knob as far as it would go.
Scalding.
She stripped out of the dress. Left it in a black puddle on the tile. Stepped under the spray and let the water pound against her shoulders, her back, the back of her neck. Steam rose around her. Filled the small room. Fogged the mirror.
She closed her eyes.
The water ran over her. Through her hair. Down her body. She pressed her palms flat against the wall and let it burn.
She wanted to feel clean.
She didn't.
She still felt him. Everywhere. His fingers digging into her hips. His teeth against her throat. The way he'd said her name—hoarse and broken and desperate—like she was the only thing keeping him alive.
She scrubbed herself raw. Soap, water, more soap. It didn't help.
The shower door opened.
Maya's eyes flew open. Ryan stepped in behind her. Naked. His chest pressed against her back. His hands found her waist.
"You okay?" he murmured against her shoulder.
"I thought you were waiting."
"I changed my mind."
He kissed the curve of her neck. Soft. Patient. His lips moved lower, tracing the line of her spine. Down her back. Over each vertebra. She felt him kneel behind her.
"Ryan—"
He didn't answer.
His hands gripped her thighs, spread them. His mouth found the back of her knee, then the inside of her thigh, then—
She gasped.
His tongue slid between her folds.
Hot. Wet. Unhurried. He licked her slowly, deliberately, like he had all the time in the world. Like he wanted to taste every inch of her. Maya's hands pressed harder against the tile. Her legs trembled.
"Oh god—"
He groaned against her. The vibration rolled through her. She looked down and saw him on his knees on the shower floor, water streaming over his shoulders, his mouth buried between her legs.
His tongue found her clit.
She bucked.
He held her steady. Licked her again. Faster this time. He sucked her clit between his lips and flicked his tongue against it, and Maya's vision went white at the edges.
"Fuck—Ryan—"
He slid two fingers inside her.
Curved them up.
She came apart.
Her body clenched around his fingers. A rush of wetness flooded his hand, his mouth, his chin—more than she expected, more than she could control. She heard herself cry out, heard the echo of it against the tile walls, and she couldn't stop.
Ryan didn't stop either.
He lapped at her through the aftershocks. Drank her down. When she finally sagged against the wall, boneless and shaking, he pulled back and looked up at her.
His chin was glistening.
His eyes were dark.
"You taste even better than you looked in that dress," he said.
She couldn't speak.
He stood. Turned off the water. Grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her. Then he scooped her up—bridal style, like she weighed nothing—and carried her dripping down the hallway.
The bed was unmade. Sheets tangled. He laid her on her back and stood over her.
"You're beautiful," he said.
She believed him.
He left.
Came back a moment later with a bottle of oil. Something amber and warm. He poured it into his palm and knelt over her.
"This okay?"
She nodded.
His hands found her shoulders. Worked the oil into her skin. Down her arms. Across her chest. He circled her nipples with his thumbs. Pulled a soft moan from her throat. His palms slid over her stomach, her hips, her thighs. He squeezed. Kneaded. Poured more oil and did it all again.
By the time he finished, she was slick from neck to ankles. Shining. Boneless.
He was still hard.
She pushed him back.
He landed on his elbows, surprised. She crawled between his legs. Took him in her hand. Stroked him once, twice.
His breath caught.
She lowered her head.
Took him in her mouth.
Slow at first. Licking up the shaft. Circling the head with her tongue. He cursed. His hand found her hair and twisted.
"Fuck, Maya—"
She took him deeper.
Relaxed her throat. Let him hit the back.
He cursed again. Louder this time.
She worked him with her hand and her mouth together. Fast. Sloppy. Spit running down her chin. She didn't care. She wanted him undone. Wanted him broken. Wanted him to feel the way she'd felt against that wall.
His hips bucked.
"I'm close—"
She pulled back.
"No."
"What?"
She climbed up his body. Straddled his hips. Kissed him deep—let him taste himself on her tongue. His hands found her ass and squeezed.
"I want you inside me," she whispered.
"You have me."
"I want—"
"Anything."
She sat up. Reached between them. Guided him to her entrance.
Then she stopped.
"Be my girlfriend," he said.
The words hung in the air.
"What?"
"Be my girlfriend." He cupped her face. "I'm serious. I want this. I want you. I want—"
"Yes."
She sank down on him.
They both groaned.
She was still slick from before. From Jaxon. From her own release. But this was different. Ryan filled her in a way that felt safe. Steady. She could feel every inch of him, and she loved it.
She started to move.
Slow at first. Rolling her hips. Finding a rhythm. He grabbed her waist and helped her along, thrusting up to meet her.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You feel—"
"I know."
She rode him harder.
Faster.
She leaned forward. Braced her hands on his chest. Gave him a view of her breasts swaying with every movement. He reached up and cupped them, thumbed her nipples, and she moaned.
"That's it," he said. "Fuck. That's it."
The pleasure built.
Different from before. Softer. Warmer. It spread through her like honey. She chased it. Chased him. Pressed her forehead to his and breathed his air.
"Together," she whispered.
"Together."
She clenched around him.
He pulsed inside her.
They came at the same time—eyes locked, mouths open, breathing each other's breath. Her body shook. His hands tightened. And for a moment there was nothing else in the world but this.
Then she collapsed onto his chest.
He wrapped his arms around her.
They lay there, tangled and spent, while the ceiling fan turned lazy circles above them.
"You're my girlfriend," he said. "For real."
"For real."
"It took me long enough to ask."
"It did."
He laughed. Kissed her forehead.
She closed her eyes.
Jaxon's face flashed behind her eyelids.
She pushed it away.
---
The oil dried on her skin. The sweat cooled. Ryan's breathing slowed into the steady rhythm of sleep.
Maya lay awake.
The room was dark. The city hummed outside the window. And somewhere out there, in the night, a motorcycle was silent.
Waiting.
She turned her face into Ryan's chest.
She didn't sleep until dawn.
She didn't sleep until dawn. When the gray light finally crept through Ryan's cheap blinds, she slipped out from under his arm and gathered her clothes from the bathroom floor. The dress was ruined—silk wrinkled, smelling like sweat and beer and something else she didn't want to name. She pulled on her jeans from yesterday, stuffed the dress into her bag, and tiptoed out the door.
Her phone said 7:43.
Her biochem lecture started at 8:00.
She ran.
---
The campus was waking up. Students shuffled across the quad with coffee cups and dead eyes, backpacks hanging off one shoulder. Maya cut through the science building's side entrance, took the stairs two at a time, and burst into the lecture hall just as the professor was pulling up her first slide.
Every seat was taken.
Except one.
Back row. Far right corner. Next to a leather jacket draped over a chair, a motorcycle helmet on the floor, and Jaxon Cole sprawled like he owned the place.
Maya's stomach dropped.
She stood in the doorway, breathing hard, scanning for any other option. Nothing. Not a single empty chair. Not even a spot on the floor that wouldn't get her stepped on. The professor cleared her throat and began talking about enzyme kinetics.
Maya had no choice.
She walked down the aisle, jaw tight, eyes fixed straight ahead. She didn't look at him. She wouldn't look at him. She'd sit in the empty seat beside him, take notes, and pretend last night never happened.
His leg moved into her path.
She rolled her eyes. Of course. Of course he'd do this. She stopped, ready to shove past him, ready to drop into the empty chair and pretend he didn't exist—
He shifted.
The chair disappeared.
She fell.
Her ass hit his lap with a soft thud, her back pressing against his chest, her bag slipping off her shoulder onto the floor. Heat flooded her face. She tried to scramble up, palms pushing against his thighs—
His arm locked around her waist.
"Don't move," he whispered against her ear.
His breath was warm. His voice was low. And beneath her, pressed against the curve of her ass, she felt it—hard and thick and unmistakable. His cock, straining against his jeans, already aching.
She froze.
"What the hell are you doing?" she hissed.
"Shh." His lips brushed her earlobe. "Professor's talking."
She looked around. The lecture hall was full of students typing, writing, nodding along. The professor was mid-sentence, gesturing at a diagram of ATP synthesis. Nobody was looking at them. Nobody could see.
Jaxon's hand found her hip.
His fingers curled into the fabric of her skirt.
"Jaxon—"
"Be quiet." His voice was barely a breath. "You don't want to draw attention, do you?"
Her heart hammered. Her throat was dry. She should get up. She should slap him. She should do literally anything other than sit here, frozen, while his cock twitched beneath her.
She didn't move.
His hips shifted.
Slow. Deliberate. He ground against her, a slow roll that dragged his erection along the seam of her ass. Maya's breath caught. Her fingers dug into his thighs.
"Stop," she whispered.
"You don't want me to stop."
"I do."
"Liar."
His hand slid from her hip to her thigh. Up. Under her skirt. His fingers found the edge of her panties, already damp, already betraying her.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You're already wet."
"Shut up."
"You've been thinking about me."
"No."
"Then why are you soaked?"
She couldn't answer.
His fingers traced her slit through the cotton. Light. Teasing. She bit her lip and stared at the professor, trying to focus, trying to breathe.
"The mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell," the professor said.
Jaxon's finger slipped inside her panties.
Maya gasped.
He covered her mouth with his free hand.
"Easy," he whispered. "You're okay. Just stay quiet."
His finger found her clit. Circled it. Slow, wet circles that made her hips twitch against his lap. She could feel him—thick and hard—pressing up between her legs. She could feel the heat of him through his jeans.
"You have no idea," he murmured, "how long I've wanted to do this."
She should stop him.
She didn't.
His fingers worked her clit faster. Her breath came in short, sharp bursts against his palm. The professor droned on about glycolysis. Students typed. Nobody turned around.
Jaxon shifted again.
His free hand moved to his zipper.
She heard it—the quiet rasp of metal teeth. Felt him free himself, hot and hard against her bare thigh. He pulled her skirt higher, exposing her ass, her soaked panties, the slick mess between her legs.
"I need you," he whispered. "Right now. You have to be quiet."
She nodded.
She couldn't speak.
He pushed her panties aside. Not all the way—just enough. The head of his cock pressed against her entrance, hot and thick and demanding.
"Jaxon—"
"Shh."
He pushed inside her.
Maya's mouth fell open. A gasp caught in her throat, strangled, desperate. He was thick—thicker than she remembered, thicker than Ryan—and she clenched around him, tight and wet and completely unprepared.
"Fuck," he breathed. "Fuck, you're tight."
She couldn't respond.
He started to move.
Slow. Careful. Every thrust was a deliberate drag of friction, pulling out just enough to make her ache before sliding back in. His hand stayed clamped over her mouth. His other hand found her hip and held her steady.
"Quiet," he repeated. "You're doing so good."
The professor kept talking.
Maya's vision blurred at the edges. She could feel every inch of him. Every vein. Every pulse. He filled her completely, stretched her open in a way that made her want to cry out, and she couldn't. She couldn't make a sound. She could only sit there, impaled on his lap, while he fucked her slow and deep in the back of a lecture hall.
His fingers found her clit again.
"Come for me," he whispered. "Quiet. But come."
She shook her head.
"Please—"
"Do it."
His fingers moved in tight, fast circles. His cock hit something deep inside her—something that made stars burst behind her eyes. She bit down on his palm. Her hips bucked. Her body clenched.
She came.
Hard.
Silent.
A shudder that rolled through her entire body, from her scalp to her toes. Her nails dug into his thighs. Wetness flooded around him, dripping down his shaft, soaking his jeans.
He groaned against her ear.
"So good," he breathed. "Fuck. So good."
He thrust twice more. Deep. Desperate. Then he followed—pulsing inside her, filling her with heat, his fingers digging bruises into her hips.
They stayed like that for a moment.
Panting.
Shaking.
The professor clicked to the next slide.
Jaxon pulled out slow. Gentle. She felt empty and raw and exposed. He pulled her panties back into place—soaked, ruined—and smoothed her skirt down over her thighs.
He tucked himself away. Zipped his jeans.
Then he leaned forward and pressed his lips to the back of her neck.
"Same time Thursday," he whispered.
She got up.
She grabbed her bag.
She didn't look back.
But she felt him watching her the whole way down the aisle.