Chapter 6: The Shower Confession
She woke to the slow, rolling pitch of being carried. The world was a dark blur of hallway, the only light a thin strip bleeding from under a closed door ahead. Her head lolled against his shoulder, her mind still gummed with sleep and the lingering, chemical echo of the drug.Her body ached in a deep, unfamiliar way.
“Time to get clean for real,” Toji said, his voice a low vibration against her ear. He shouldered the bathroom door open.
The air hit her first—damp, chill, smelling of old mildew and the ghost of cheap bar soap. He flicked on a switch; a single, fly-specked bulb flickered to life above a cracked mirror, casting the room in a sickly yellow glow.Peeling floral wallpaper curled inward like dead skin. The clawfoot tub was a monument to neglect, its white porcelain stained ochre where the water had once rested.
He didn’t set her down gently. He perched her on the closed lid of the toilet, the cold porcelain a shock against her bare thighs.She swayed, catching herself on the edge of the sink. He was already at the tub, twisting the taps with a screech of ancient plumbing. Water roared out, hitting the iron with a sound like distant rain.
“Still out of it?” he asked, turning to look at her.His green eyes were sharp, clear, assessing. He’d slept, or at least rested, while she’d been dead to the world.She shook her head, a lie. She was all raw nerve endings and a hollow, buzzing need she didn’t want to name.
He approached and knelt before her, his knees on the worn bath mat.The position was unsettlingly devotional. His hands went to the hem of her white tank top, fingering the damp, stained fabric. “This is a mess,” he said, almost to himself.Her breath hitched. She didn’t help as he gathered the material and drew it up, over her ribs, her chest, her head.The air in the room was cool, raising goosebumps on her arms. She sat there, exposed, her small breasts bare in the jaundiced light. She felt no urge to cover herself. The shame was there, a dull background hum, but it was buried under a heavier, more compelling gravity—his gaze.He didn’t linger. His hands went to his own shirt, a simple black tee, and he pulled it over his head in one fluid motion. The scars were a map of a violent life, pale slicks and knotted ridges across his muscular torso.He stood, unbuckled his belt, let his trousers and shorts fall to the floor. He stepped out of them, and there was no artifice, no modesty. He was just… there.Fully, imposingly present.The steam from the shower began to fog the mirror behind her. “C’mon,” he said, offering a hand.
She took it, her fingers swallowed by his.He guided her to the tub, over the high, cold rim, and into the spray. The water was hotter than she expected, a near-scalding cascade that made her gasp. He followed right behind, his bulk blocking the light, his body caging her against the slick, cool tile.The heat was a baptism. It sluiced over her scalp, her shoulders, washing away the dried salt and sweat and evidence. He reached for a bar of soap, worked it between his palms until lather bloomed, thick and white. He started with her neck, his hands moving in firm, circular strokes, massaging the tension from her muscles. He soaped her collarbones, the valley between her small breasts, her ribs, her stomach.It was methodical. It was thorough.It was unbearably slow.
He turned her gently, her front to the tile, his chest to her back. The soapy slide of his hands over her shoulder blades, down her spine, over the curve of her ass.He washed every part of her, his touch possessive and unashamed. When his slick, soapy fingers traced the cleft of her ass, dipping briefly, testingly inward, she moaned, her forehead pressing against the tile.
“Told you,” he murmured into the wet shell of her ear, his voice barely audible over the drumming water. “Gonna get you clean.”
He spun her back to face him. Water streamed down his face, plastering his black hair to his skull.His cock, hard and thick, pressed against her lower belly. He didn’t try to enter her.He just held her there, the solid heat of him a brand. One hand came up to cup her jaw, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. The other hand slid down, over her belly, through the tangle of wet hair below, and found her.
She cried out, a short, sharp sound lost in the steam. His fingers were slick with soap and water, sliding over her with a frictionless, maddening ease. He worked her with a detached, rhythmic precision, his eyes watching her face intently as it crumpled.
“See?” he said, his breath hot on her lips.“All clean. But you’re still a mess, aren’t you?”
She was. Her hips jerked against his hand, seeking pressure that wasn’t there, seeking relief that he was deliberately, calmly withholding. She was whimpering, nonsensical pleas falling from her mouth. “Please… daddy, I… please.”
He kissed her then, not on the mouth, but on the forehead, a chaste, terrible parody of blessing. “Shhh,” he whispered.“Not here. Not like this.”
He removed his hand abruptly, leaving her shuddering on the edge.He reached past her and shut off the water. The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the drip from the showerhead and their ragged breathing.
He stepped out, grabbed a large, thin towel from a rusty rail, and shook it open. “Out you get.”
She was limp, obedient. He wrapped her in the towel, rubbing her dry with a brisk, impersonal efficiency that felt more intimate than anything before. He dried himself quickly, sloppily, then slipped his trousers back on, leaving his chest bare.
He lifted her again, towel and all, and carried her from the humid tomb of the bathroom back into the dim, cooler air of the hallway.Back toward the bedroom.Her cheek rested against his damp skin. She could smell the soap, and underneath it, him.
“You teased me,” she mumbled into his collarbone, the words sodden with frustration.He chuckled, a low, warm sound that vibrated through her. “Yeah,” he admitted, not a hint of apology in his voice. He shouldered the bedroom door open.“Bed’s more comfortable. And I,” he said, laying her down on the faded sheets, “am not a bathtub kind of guy.” He leaned over her, bracing himself on one arm, water from his hair dripping onto her chest. His grin was all sharp, white teeth and predatory promise. “Gotta do things right for my girl.”