Chapter 20: Post-coital shower turns primal when Sergio pins Alma to the steamed-up glass, his cock sliding easily into her still-sensitive cunt as hot water sluices over their tangled bodies - his possessive grip on her hips leaving bruises while she begs in broken Spanish for him to fill her once more.
The silence after the words hung between them, thick as the morning humidity rolling off the sea below. It wasn’t an awkward silence, but a saturated one, heavy with the weight of what had been named. Sergio’s hand stilled on her spine. Alma kept her ear pressed to his chest, listening to the frantic gallop of his heart slowly decelerate into a steady, powerful rhythm. The confession was now a third entity in the room, vast and delicate.
He moved first. Without a word, he slid his arms under her knees and shoulders, lifting her from the sweat-dampened sheets as if she weighed nothing. She made a small sound of protest, but he shushed her, a gentle puff of air against her forehead. “You can barely stand,” he murmured, a thread of masculine satisfaction woven through his concern.
He carried her through the cool, silent penthouse, his bare feet padding on the polished concrete floors. The master bathroom was a cavern of cream marble and frosted glass, already lit by the diffuse morning sun. He set her down gently on the heated bench built into the shower wall, her legs trembling. He reached in and turned the dials. Water roared from the wide, ceiling-mounted rain head, cascading down in a heavy curtain, steaming up the glass enclosure instantly.
He stepped in first, pulling her after him. The hot water was a shock, a baptism. It sluiced over them, washing away the salt and sweat and evidence of their night. He reached for a bottle, pouring a stream of sandalwood-scented gel into his palm. His hands were gentle, methodical, as he began to wash her. He started with her shoulders, working the lather over her skin in slow, circular motions. He washed her arms, her neck, the curve of her back, his touch reverent. This was a different kind of possession, a claiming through care.
His soap-slick hands slid over her breasts, his thumbs brushing her nipples, which peaked instantly under the hot water and his attention. A soft gasp escaped her. He didn’t linger, moving down her stomach, over the swell of her hips. He knelt before her, water streaming down his dark hair and over the tense muscles of his back. He poured more gel, his hands sliding down her thighs, her calves, to her feet. He lifted one foot, then the other, washing them with a concentration usually reserved for his racing machinery.
But when his hands traveled back up her inner thighs, the intent shifted. The touch was no longer merely cleansing. His fingers, slick with soap, glided through the sensitive folds between her legs, already swollen and tender from use. He wasn't washing her there. He was exploring. A single, firm finger traced her opening, still loose and pliant from his taking. A low groan vibrated from his chest, lost in the roar of the water.
He looked up at her, his face tilted, water running into his eyes. He didn’t blink. The hunger was back, raw and instantaneous. His finger pushed inside her, just to the first knuckle. Her legs quivered. He added a second finger, the stretch a delicious, familiar ache. He pumped them slowly, his thumb finding her clit, circling with a pressure that made her knees buckle. He held her up with his other arm, his fingers working her with a devastating, knowing rhythm.
“You see?” he said, his voice rough, competing with the water. “Your body knows. It’s mine. It opens for me like it was made for it.” He curled his fingers, finding that sweet, deep spot, and her head fell back against the marble with a thud. Pleasure, sharp and bright, lanced through her. “You come on my fingers in the shower like a good girl, just from this, don’t you?”
She couldn’t speak. Her hips rocked against his hand, seeking more friction, more of that exquisite pressure. The orgasm built fast, a coiling tension in her lower belly. He saw it on her face, felt it in the tightening of her muscles around his fingers. He leaned forward, his mouth hovering an inch from her soaked skin. “Come,” he commanded, his breath hot against her.
The word, uttered with such absolute authority, triggered her release. She cried out, a sharp, wet sound swallowed by the shower, her body clenching around his invading fingers as the pleasure detonated, sharp and blinding. He worked her through it, his fingers gentling but never stopping, milking every last pulse until she sagged against him, boneless.
He withdrew his fingers, standing in one fluid motion. His cock, fully erect and jutting aggressively from his body, brushed against her stomach. He was magnificent in his arousal, all corded muscle and primal need. He backed her up until the cool, wet tiles met her shoulder blades. The contrast of the cold stone against her overheated skin was a shock.
He pressed his body against hers, pinning her, the heat of him searing through the water. He leaned in, his lips finding the scar on her temple. He kissed it, a soft press of lips on wet skin. Then he moved to the one on her cheekbone, another kiss. His voice was a guttural whisper against her ear, barely audible over the cascade. “Again.”
It wasn’t a request. It was a statement of inevitability.
In one brutal, fluid motion, he hoisted her up. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck for purchase. He didn’t fumble, didn’t hesitate. He guided himself to her entrance and, with a single, powerful thrust of his hips, he was inside her, filling her completely. The force of it knocked the air from her lungs. He was deeper than ever, the angle relentless. He held her there, impaled, his forehead resting against hers, water streaming down both their faces.
“Fuck,” he snarled, the word torn from him. “You take me so well. Every fucking inch.”
He began to move, not with the slow, deep rhythm of before, but with a frantic, driving pace born of desperate hunger. Each thrust slammed her back into the tiles, the impact jolting through her spine. The sounds were obscenely loud in the tiled space: the slap of wet skin, their ragged grunts, the choked cries she couldn’t suppress. He fucked her with a raw, untamed force, his hands gripping her ass, fingers digging into the flesh, holding her open for his pounding cock.
“Tell me,” he demanded, his breath hot and ragged in her ear. “Tell me who this cunt belongs to.”
“You,” she sobbed, the word fracturing on a particularly deep thrust.
“Louder.”
“You!” she cried out, the declaration echoing off the marble. “It’s yours, Sergio, it’s always been yours!”
A growl of pure satisfaction ripped from his throat. He shifted his grip, one hand tangling in her wet curls, pulling her head back to expose her throat. He bit down on the tendon there, not hard enough to break skin, but a claiming bite that made her shriek. His other hand slipped between their slick bodies, his thumb finding her clit, rubbing harsh, fast circles.
The stimulation was too much, too intense. She was over-sensitized, raw, and the pleasure-pain of it spiraled out of control. Her second orgasm of the morning tore through her with violent, wrenching spasms. She screamed, her body clamping down on him like a vise, the sensations so acute they blurred into agony.
He swore, a stream of filthy Spanish, as her internal muscles milked him. His rhythm broke, his thrusts becoming wild, uncoordinated. With three final, jagged drives, he buried himself to the hilt and came, his roar joining the sound of the water. She felt the hot, pulsing rush of his release deep inside her, a final, possessive claim.
For a long moment, they stayed like that, locked together, breathing in ragged unison as the water began to run cool. He slowly let her down, her legs almost giving way. He caught her, holding her up against his heaving chest.
They stood under the cooling spray, clinging to each other. The frantic energy had spent itself, leaving a hollowed-out, tender quiet in its wake. He reached up and turned the water off. The sudden silence was deafening. Dripping, he reached for a large, warm towel, wrapping it around her first before taking one for himself.
He blotted her face dry with a corner of the towel, his touch improbably gentle. He dabbed at the fresh bite mark on her neck. His phone, left on the vanity, began to vibrate, skittering across the marble with a persistent buzz.
They both looked at it. The screen glowed with the name: ENZO.
The real world, with its schedules and demands, had finally breached the sanctuary. Sergio made no move to answer it. He just looked at Alma, water dripping from his dark lashes, his expression unreadable. The ringtone cut off, then immediately started again, a frantic, insistent beat.
He leaned forward and kissed her, a soft, closed-mouth press of lips that tasted of shower water and something infinitely more fragile. “I have to go be a racing driver now,” he whispered against her mouth.
She nodded, unable to speak. He turned and picked up the screaming phone, his voice shifting into its familiar, clipped professional mode as he walked out of the bathroom. “Enzo. I know. I’m late.”
Alma stood alone in the steam-filled room, the towel clinging to her oversensitized skin, the ghost of his body still imprinted on hers, the echo of his release a warm, sticky truth between her thighs. Through the open door, she heard him, already transforming. “Tell the engineers I want to see the telemetry from P3 before the briefing. And get me a double espresso. Now.”
She wrapped the towel tighter, a shield against the sudden chill. Outside, the engines were screaming. In here, the only sound was the drip of water from the showerhead and the distant, steady voice of the man who had just loved her, wrecked her, and claimed her, all before breakfast.
In here, the only sound was the drip of water from the showerhead and the distant, steady voice of the man who had just loved her, wrecked her, and claimed her, all before breakfast. She breathed in the steam, trying to reassemble the pieces of herself he had so thoroughly scattered. The cold marble under her feet grounded her, a sharp contrast to the lingering heat thrumming between her legs.
Twenty minutes later, dressed in a crisp, dove-gray linen blazer and tailored trousers, her hair twisted into a flawless knot, she entered the main living area. Sergio stood by the window, already in his fireproof race suit down to the waist, the sleeves tied around his hips. He was scrolling through data on a tablet, his brow furrowed. He looked up, and his entire face changed. The technical focus dissolved, replaced by a slow, deep warmth that started in his eyes.
“There you are,” he said, his voice quiet. He put the tablet down and crossed the room to her. His hands came up, not to pull her close, but to adjust the lapel of her blazer with a startling tenderness. His knuckles brushed the base of her throat, over the faint, reddish mark his teeth had left. A possessive thrill shot through her. “Perfect,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.
Enzo burst in, a whirlwind of agitated energy. “Santo cielo, Sergio, the car is finalized, the FIA steward is waiting for your wristband, and your hydration stats are— Oh.” He stopped short, his eyes darting from Sergio’s intimate posture to Alma’s composed face. A knowing, slightly exasperated smirk flashed across the trainer’s features. “I see. Well, move your simpatico ass. Now.”
The short, armored drive to the paddock was a bubble of charged silence. Sergio held her hand on the leather seat, his thumb making slow, grinding circles on her palm. He stared out the tinted window, but his mind was clearly elsewhere, a small, private smile playing on his lips. He brought her knuckles to his mouth, pressing a hard, lingering kiss to them just as the car rolled to a security checkpoint.
The afternoon sun hammered the Principality, baking the asphalt and filling the air with the throaty growl of idling engines and the sharp tang of high-octane fuel. Sergio stepped out first, then turned and offered her his hand. This was not his usual hurried, distracted entrance. It was a deliberate performance. She took it, sliding out with her tablet case in her other hand, every inch the unflappable professional.
They walked into the paddock hand in hand.
She was still her usual professional, effortless self—posture straight, expression calmly observant, attuned to the logistic chaos around them. But the context had atomized. His large, familiar hand enveloped hers, a blatant, unignorable tether. The change in the air was instant, a ripple of palpable awareness that spread through the crowded paddock walkway like a shockwave. Heads turned. Conversations hitched. A mechanic balancing a set of tire warmers froze mid-step, his eyes widening.
Sergio didn’t just look proud. He radiated a deep, unshakeable smugness. His stride was a slow, deliberate parade, his chin lifted, his shoulders relaxed in a way they never were on a race day. He didn’t scan the crowd for rivals or journalists. He just kept his gaze forward, occasionally glancing down at Alma beside him, the satisfaction in his eyes so potent it felt like a physical touch. He owned the fastest car on the grid, and now, walking beside him in clear, quiet possession, was the most enigmatic woman in the paddock, who everyone now knew happily belonged to Sergio.