Chapter 9: The shower
His legs were jelly. The high from before had crashed, leaving behind a fizzy, hollow static in his ears. He slumped against the wall, the cool plaster a shock against his heated skin. Eva stayed on the floor, head resting against his thigh, breathing deeply. The silence was thick, filled only by the hum of the refrigerator in the next room and their slowing heartbeats.
“Wow,” he finally managed, the word exhaled more than spoken.
Eva tilted her head back to look up at him. Her smile was lazy, satisfied. “Told you.”
He slid down the wall to sit beside her, their shoulders touching. The evidence of what they’d done was stark on her skin, a brutal painting. He traced a finger lightly around the edge of a fresh, plum-colored blotch near her rib cage. She shivered.
“Does it hurt?”
“Yeah,” she said simply. “It’s a good hurt. A real one.” She pushed herself up with a wince, her abs protesting. “I need a shower. Feel gross.”
“Me too.” The stickiness on his stomach was cooling, turning uncomfortable.
She offered a hand and pulled him to his feet. They moved through the cluttered apartment, a silent, tired procession. His bathroom was small, the tile grout dingy, a single bar of soap on the edge of the tub. He fumbled with the knobs; water sputtered, then streamed, filling the room with steam.
He stepped in first, the hot water a scalding benediction on his shoulders. Then she joined him, and the space became impossibly intimate. This was different. The focused darkness of the bedroom was gone, replaced by the bright, unforgiving light of the bare bulb overhead. The steam couldn’t hide anything.
It was the first time he truly saw her.
Water sluiced over the defined slopes of her shoulders, down the powerful lines of her back, over the spectacular wreckage of her stomach. The bruises looked angrier under the fluorescent light, a galaxy of violation. Her body was a testament to endurance, every muscle clear under skin beaded with moisture. She was, objectively, stunning. And he had put those marks there.
He just stared, his mouth slightly open. The water ran into his eyes.
She turned to face him, water plastering her dark hair to her skull. She saw his look. “What?”
“You’re just… Jesus, Eva.”
She laughed, a short, clean sound that cut through the hiss of the shower. “I’m a mess.” But she preened a little under his gaze, arching her back so the water hit her chest.
His reaction was immediate, visceral, a swift hardening that felt almost separate from his will. It was the sight of her, the knowledge, the proximity. The steam, her nakedness, the vivid proof of his desires etched into her skin.
She glanced down and saw. Her eyebrow lifted. “Already? Recovery time’s not bad, newbie.”
He reached for her, not to punch, but to pull her close. Their bodies slid together, wet and hot. He kissed her, and it tasted of water and salt. Her hands found his hips, her nails digging in just enough to sting.
When they broke apart, breathless, she was looking at him with that challenging glint. “So what now? We just wash?”
His hands were on her waist, his thumbs stroking the crests of her hip bones. His gaze dropped to her stomach, the center of everything. The water pounded on the bruises, a constant, relentless pressure. He wanted to add his own.
“Turn around,” he said, his voice rough.
She understood instantly. A flicker of excitement crossed her face. She turned, presenting her back to him, bracing her hands flat against the slick tiles. The water cascaded over her shoulders, down the line of her spine, dripping from the curves of her ass.
He moved in close behind her, his body not touching hers yet. He looked at the target: the vulnerable dip of her lower back, the clenched muscles of her midsage waiting. He drew his fist back, the motion pulling muscles in his own shoulder.
The first punch landed with a wet, solid thwack that was swallowed by the shower’s roar. Her body jolted forward into the wall, a gasp ripped from her. He saw the impact ripple through her.
“Hold onto me,” he grunted.
She reached back blindly, one hand finding his thigh, her fingers gripping tight. He hit her again, same spot, a little harder. The sound was different here—less echo, more impact. Water sprayed from her skin on contact.
He settled into a rhythm, his left hand gripping her shoulder to steady her, his right driving in, over and over, into the dense muscle of her abdomen, sometimes higher, near the solar plexus. Each blow slammed her body into his, a vicious, intimate dance. She was pushing back against him, meeting each strike with a tensing of her core, swallowing the force.
Her breathing became ragged, torn between moans and sharp exhales that fogged the tiles. Her grip on his thigh was ferocious. He could feel her shaking, but it wasn’t from weakness. It was a deep, thrumming vibration of intensity.
He leaned in, his mouth near her ear. “You like this?” he shouted over the water.
“Yes!” It was half a sob.
“You’re getting wet from it,” he growled, noticing the way her thighs glistened, a slickness that wasn't just from the shower.
“From you,” she choked out, turning her head to look at him over her shoulder. Her eyes were glazed, pupils wide. “From seeing you. From taking it.”
That unraveled him. He fucked her with his fist, each punch a brutal, claiming thrust. The heat between them was volcanic, a mix of steam and sweat and raw need. He kissed the side of her neck, her shoulder, tasting chlorinated water and her skin.
She twisted suddenly in his grasp, turning to face him. Her expression was wild, open, utterly wrecked. She grabbed his face and pulled him into a desperate, biting kiss. He kissed her back just as hard, his hands coming up to frame her jaw, his thumbs stroking her cheeks.
They kissed as the water pummeled them. They kissed through the pain radiating from her belly. They kissed until they were breathless, until the world had narrowed to the hot, white space of the shower and the taste of each other.
When they finally parted, foreheads touching, she was grinning, a crazy, beautiful grin.
“We’re gonna run out of hot water,” she panted.
“I don’t care,” he said, and he meant it. He felt invincible. He felt real.
She reached for the soap, her movements slow, pained, and utterly graceful. “Then let’s get clean. We’ve got time.”
The water began to cool a few minutes later, but he barely felt it. He was watching the soap suds slide over the topography of her bruises, mesmerized by the map they were making together.