Chapter 5: Steam and Surrender
The grey dawn light filtered through the blinds, striping the rumpled bed. Maria woke to the absence of his warmth. The space beside her was cool, the sheets empty. For a disorienting second, panic lanced through her—he was gone. Then she heard the shower running.
She lay still, the events of the night coating her skin like a film. The taste of him was still on her tongue. The ache between her legs was a deep, throbbing reminder. The cracked headboard stood as a silent monument against the wall. She pushed back the comforter, the air chilly on her naked skin, and padded across the familiar floorboards towards the bathroom.
Steam rolled out as she opened the door. The mirror was fogged, the room thick with the scent of his soap—a plain, clean bar smell that somehow undid her. Through the fogged glass of the shower door, she saw the blur of his shape under the spray.
She didn’t knock. She simply opened the shower door and stepped in.
The hot water hit her like a shock, cascading over her shoulders and back. Joe turned, water sluicing down his chest, his blonde hair dark and plastered to his skull. His eyes, blue and startlingly clear, held no surprise. Only a deep, weary recognition.
“Couldn’t stay away,” he said, his voice a low rumble under the hiss of the water.
“The bed got cold,” she replied, the words sounding feeble even to her.
He didn’t move to touch her. He just watched as the water traced the curves of her breasts, her hips, the dark triangle of curls between her legs. The silence between them was different here—wet, heavy, loaded with everything unsaid from the night. The apologies, the explanations, they hadn’t fixed a damn thing. They’d just laid the wreckage bare.
He reached for the bar of soap. He lathered his hands, the sound coarse in the small space. Then his soapy hands were on her shoulders, kneading the tension there. She let her head fall forward, a low groan escaping her lips. It was an old ritual, from a time when this was just a prelude to coffee and the newspaper. His hands moved down her back, over the swell of her ass, his thumbs pressing into the muscles at the top of her thighs. She braced her hands against the cool tile wall.
His touch changed. The massage became something else, something more deliberate. One hand slid around her hip, his fingers sliding through her slick folds from behind. She gasped, her forehead pressing against the tile.
“Is this what you want?” he murmured into her ear, his body close behind her now, his hard cock pressing against the small of her back. “More of this? Another round to forget with?”
“Joe…” Her voice was a plea, but she didn’t know what she was asking for. Forgiveness? Absolution? Or just the punishing, brilliant oblivion of his body?
His fingers worked her, parting her, circling her clit with a rough, knowing pressure. “You came back for a fuck. So let’s fuck.” There was a cold edge to his words, a bitterness that the night’s passion had masked. He removed his hand, and she whimpered at the loss. Then she felt him, the broad head of his cock, pressing against her entrance. He wasn’t gentle. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging in, and pushed forward in one slow, inexorable thrust.
The stretch, the filling, was even more intense here, surrounded by the heat and the steam. Her cry echoed off the tiles. He buried himself to the hilt and held there, not moving, making her feel every inch of him inside her. The water beat down on them both.
“Look at you,” he breathed, his voice tight. “Bent over in my shower. Like you never left.”
He began to move. Slow, deep, punishing thrusts that dragged against her sensitive walls on every withdrawal. This wasn’t the frantic pace of the night before. This was measured, deliberate, a cruel parody of intimacy. Each push forward shoved her hands harder against the wall. Each pull back left her empty and aching.
“Tell me,” he said, his breath hot on her neck. His pace increased slightly, the slap of wet skin joining the drum of the water. “Tell me you’ll miss this.”
She couldn’t speak. Her orgasm was already coiling, treacherous and quick, fueled by the roughness and the shame and the unbearable rightness of his body in hers.
He drove into her harder, his fingers tangling in her wet curls, pulling her head back just enough to strain her throat. “Tell me you’ll fucking ache for it,” he growled, his control fraying. “That you’ll lie in your lonely bed and think of my cock in you, splitting you open, and you’ll twist your fingers in your sheets and hate yourself for wanting it.”
“Yes,” she sobbed, the word ripped from her. The confession was worse than the sex. It was the truth. “I’ll miss it. I’ll ache. God, Joe, please…”
“Please what?”
“Fuck me. Just fuck me. Make me feel it.”
He swore under his breath, a raw, filthy word lost in the steam. His thrusts became faster, harder, driving her up against the wall with each one. The world narrowed to the slam of his hips, the slick, wet sound of their joining, the scorching water on her back, and the blinding, building pressure inside her. He was everywhere, in her, around her, the scent and sound and feel of him erasing every other thought.
“Come for me,” he commanded, his voice breaking. “Come on my cock like the desperate thing you are.”
It was the crudeness, the verbal slap, that sent her over the edge. Her orgasm tore through her, a violent, shuddering wave that clenched around him, pulling a guttural shout from his lungs as he followed. His release pulsed deep inside her, a final, hot claim in the pouring water.
He stayed there for a long moment, slumped over her, his weight heavy and sustaining. His forehead was against her shoulder blade. The water began to cool.
Slowly, he softened and slipped out of her. He didn’t let go of her hips. She didn’t move from the wall. The steam was clearing. Through the now-translucent glass, she could see the vague outline of the bathroom, the world waiting outside.
He finally released her and reached past to turn off the water. The sudden silence was deafening. Dripping, they stood in the stall. He opened the door and grabbed a towel, wrapping it around his waist. He handed her another without meeting her eyes.
The towel was rough against her skin, a stark contrast to the slick heat still echoing between her legs. She dried herself mechanically, watching him move through the steam. His back was a landscape of tension, muscles coiled beneath skin flushed from the water and something else. He didn’t speak. The silence was a minefield.
They dressed in the bedroom, the morning light now harsh and revealing.