Chapter 5: The Shower and the Confession
The bathroom was small, cluttered with the artifacts of a busy life—a towel draped over the edge of the sink, a bottle of shampoo balanced precariously on the ledge of the tub, a damp washcloth balled up on the floor. The mirror was fogged from the steam that had begun to rise, and the fluorescent light above the sink hummed with a nervous energy that matched the thrumming under his skin.
Stiles leaned against the doorframe, watching Emily reach into the shower and twist the knob. The pipes groaned, a low, ancient sound, and then water hissed against the porcelain tiles. She straightened, turning to face him, and the steam caught in the air between them, curling around her like a living thing.
She was still naked, or nearly so—the discarded jeans and panties lay in a heap on the bathroom floor, and she wore nothing but the faint red marks his hands had left on her hips. The light caught the curve of her breast, the shadow between her thighs, and he felt a fresh surge of want pooling low in his gut.
"So," she said, her voice casual, conversational, as though they'd just finished discussing the weather. "I'm on the pill."
The sentence landed like a grenade in the middle of the room. He blinked, his brain stuttering to a halt, rebooting, and then failing entirely.
"I've been on it since I was seventeen," she continued, stepping toward the shower, her bare feet silent against the tile. "Hormonal regulation. I had terrible cramps, and my doctor suggested it. It's been a godsend, honestly. No mood swings, lighter periods, and—" She turned back to look at him, a wicked glint in her blue eyes. "—no need to pull out. If you don't want to."
His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. He heard a high-pitched whine and realized, distantly, that it was coming from him.
Emily laughed—a warm, husky sound—and watched the chaos unfold behind his eyes. His pale skin flushed, a blotchy red crawling up his neck to his cheeks. His hands twitched at his sides, fingers flexing like he was trying to physically grasp the implication of her words. It was, she thought, the most endearing thing she'd seen in weeks.
"You good?" she asked, tilting her head.
"Yeah—yeah, I'm—" He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I'm great. Totally great. I just—I—" He stopped, took a breath, and tried again. “I mean, it's great, it's—" He stopped, the words tangling on his tongue. "You're on the pill. Right. Okay. Noted. Filed away. Thank you."
Emily's grin widened, and she stepped into the shower, the water sluicing over her shoulders, plastering her honey-brown hair to her scalp.
He watched her, his gaze dragging down the length of her body—the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, the dark triangle of hair between her thighs. She reached up, wiping the water from her face, and met his eyes through the steam.
"Are you coming in, or are you going to stand there and have a stroke?"
He shook himself, stepping out of his boxers and following her into the shower.
The water was hot, almost too hot, and it hit his skin like a shock wave, chasing away the lingering chill from the living room. Emily pressed her back against the cool tile, the contrast making her gasp, and pulled him into a kiss that was softer than before, slower, but no less hungry. Her hands slid up his chest, over his shoulders, and into his wet hair, tugging gently.
He pressed his body against hers, the water cascading around them, and walked his hands down her sides, feeling the give of her skin, the warmth of her flesh. His palms cupped her ass, squeezing, and she arched into him, pressing her mouth harder against his own.
She reached down and wrapped her hand around his cock. It was already hard—had been hard since the moment she'd said the word pill, honestly—and the feel of her slick fingers wrapping around him made him groan into her mouth. She stroked him slowly, deliberately, dragging her thumb over the head, and the precum mixed with the water, making everything slick and easy.
"Jesus, Emily," he breathed, his forehead dropping to hers.
"What?" she asked, all faux-innocence, stroking faster. "You don't like it?"
"You know I love it. I love—" He choked on a gasp as she squeezed, a little harder, a little tighter. "—I love everything about it."
She laughed, low and wicked, but she didn't stop. She worked him until he was trembling, until he had to grip the back of her neck just to stay upright. Then she turned, planting her hands against the tile, and looked back at him over her shoulder.
The water streamed down her spine, over the curve of her ass, dripping off the slick flesh of her thighs. She arched her back, presenting herself to him, and her voice came out low and raw:
"Fuck me."
He didn't need to be told twice.
He stepped forward, gripping her hips, and positioned himself at her entrance. She was already wet—so wet, the heat and steam and friction making her slick beyond reason—and he slid into her in one smooth stroke, both of them groaning as her walls clenched around him.
"Fuck," she hissed, her fingers scraping against the tile.
He pulled back, almost all the way out, and slammed back in. The sound of flesh on flesh echoed in the small space, bouncing off the cracked grout and the fogged mirror and the dripping faucet. He found a rhythm, fast and hard, his hips slapping against her ass, one hand gripping her hip hard enough to bruise.
The other hand slid around her waist, dipping lower, finding her clit. He circled it with his thumb, pressing and rubbing in time with his thrusts, and she cried out, her voice sharp and high and desperate.
"Right there," she moaned, pushing back against him, driving him deeper. "Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop—"
He didn't. He drove into her harder, the water pounding against their skin, muffling the sounds of their grunts and moans, mingling with them, making everything wet and slippery and primal. She was so tight, so hot, clenching around him with every stroke, and he could feel himself losing control.
He reached around, finding her nipples, pinching them between his fingers, rolling them, tugging, and she screamed—a raw, unguarded sound that bounced off the tiles. Her body convulsed, her walls fluttering and then clamping down around him like a vice, and she came with a wail of his name.
He pulled out, the sudden loss of heat making him gasp. She spun around, water flying from her hair, and jumped, wrapping her legs around his waist. He caught her, his hands gripping her ass, and she reached down, guiding him back inside her.
He impaled her in one desperate thrust, burying himself to the hilt. She threw her head back, her mouth open in a silent cry, and then she was bouncing, riding him, her heels digging into his lower back as he pounded into her.
The wall was cold against his shoulders, the water hot against his spine, and she was everywhere—her mouth on his neck, her nails raking down his back, her cunt squeezing him like she never wanted to let go.
"Fuck, Emily," he grunted, his voice ragged. "You're gonna kill me."
"Then die happy," she breathed, and she bit his shoulder, hard.
That did it. He slammed into her, once, twice, a third time, and then he was coming, buried as deep as he could go, his body shuddering as he filled her, hot and thick and endless. She cried out, feeling him pulse inside her, and she shattered again, her walls milking him, dragging out every last drop.
They collapsed against the tile, a tangled, panting mess of limbs and water and steam. His forehead rested against her shoulder, his breath coming in ragged gasps, and she wrapped her arms around him, holding him up.
"Holy shit," he finally managed, his voice muffled against her wet skin.
"Language," she teased, but her voice was equally breathless.
He laughed, a weak, shaky sound, and pulled back just enough to look at her. Water dripped from her hair, streaking down her face, and she looked utterly wrecked—swollen lips, glazed eyes, pink flush spreading across her chest.
"Round three?" he asked, the words coming out on a wheeze.
"Give me five minutes," she said, dropping her legs to the floor, wincing as her feet hit the tile. "I need to feel my legs again."
He laughed, and it felt shockingly normal, standing in the shower with a woman he barely knew, both of them naked and spent and grinning like idiots. The water had started to run cold, a sharp reminder of the world outside the steam.
She reached past him, twisting the knob, and the shower sputtered and fell silent. The bathroom was quiet now, save for the dripping faucet and the distant hum of the refrigerator.
Emily stepped out first, grabbing a towel from the rack and wrapping it around herself. She tossed another one at him, and he caught it, drying his hair with a familiar gesture that made him look younger, softer.
"Your place is nice," he said, the observation slipping out before he could stop it. "Cozy. Lots of books. Very—" He gestured vaguely. "—forensic."
She snorted. "You mean 'serial killer chic'?"
"Uh—" He winced, rubbing the towel over his chest. "I was going to say 'intellectual,' but sure, we can go with serial killer chic."
She laughed—a real laugh, warm and open, not the guarded, dry chuckle she'd offered earlier. "It's a rental. The furniture came with the place. The books are mine, though." She gestured toward the living room, where the spilled textbooks still lay scattered on the coffee table. "They're for my thesis."
She hesitated, a flicker of something crossing her face. "Criminal psychology," she said after a beat. "Specifically, the psychology of survival. What makes some people adapt when the world falls apart."
Stiles felt a prickle at the back of his neck, a sensation he knew too well. The words hit close to home—too close, and he had to resist the urge to look over his shoulder.
"Fascinating," he said, and the word came out more sincere than he'd intended. "I'd like to hear more about it sometime."
She looked at him, her blue eyes sharp and searching. "You're not just saying that to get into my pants again?"
"Emily," he said, his voice playful, "I was going to try to get into your pants regardless. But I'm also genuinely interested in how you think. That's not a line. That's just true."
She studied him for a long moment, something shifting in her expression. Then she smiled, and it was dangerous and beautiful and everything he hadn't known he was looking for.
"Okay," she said. "We'll see."
She turned, padding into the bedroom, and he followed.