Chapter 12: The Shower After
The steam in the bathroom was thick enough to taste, curling from the gap in the shower curtain like the ghost of the heat that had finally cooled between their bodies in the bed. Angel watched it from the doorway, leaning against the frame. The tile was cold under her bare feet. She could still feel him inside her, that deep, satisfying ache, a phantom fullness. The tenderness of his final, searching thrusts felt like a dream the steam was trying to erase.
The shower spray was a constant, hissing rain. She could see the vague, powerful shape of him through the translucent curtain, the broad shoulders, the dip of his spine, the water sluicing in dark streams down his back. He wasn’t moving. Just standing under the torrent, head bowed.
She pushed off the doorframe and walked in. The room was small, the air cloying and wet. She didn’t announce herself. She just hooked a finger in the plastic and drew it back on its rattling rings.
He didn’t turn. He knew it was her. The knowledge hung in the steam between them. She stepped over the porcelain lip into the tub, the water immediately plastering her hair to her skull, stinging her skin with its heat. She pressed herself against his back, her nipples hardening against the wet, sculpted planes of his lat muscles, her belly against the small of his back, her mound against the hard curve of his ass.
He flinched. Just a tiny, involuntary tightening of every muscle. Then he exhaled, a long, slow release that seemed to let the resistance flow out of him with the water running down the drain. He leaned back into her, his head tilting back onto her shoulder. His skin was slick and hot.
She reached around his waist, her hands sliding over the washboard ridges of his abdomen, down through the coarse, wet hair. She found his cock. It was soft, heavy, resting in her palm. She soaped her hands with the cheap, sport-scented bar from the dish, working up a thick, slick lather. She transferred it to him, her fingers gliding over his length, circling the head, coating every inch of him with slippery, diligent care. She felt him stir, thickening under her ministrations, the flesh becoming firm and alive in her grip.
“That mouth,” he’d said. That perfect, hungry mouth.
The memory was a command. She released him, letting the water rinse the suds from her hands. She sank to her knees in the tub. The spray hit her shoulders and the crown of her head, water cascading down her face. She looked up at him. He was looking down now, his expression obscured by the steam and the water streaming over his face. His cock, now fully hard, jutted out from the dark thatch, glistening and immense.
She didn’t hesitate. She opened her mouth and took him in.
The heat of him was a shock, different from the shower’s heat. More vital. She took as much as she could, her lips stretching wide, her tongue flattening against the thick underside. She pushed forward, wanting more, wanting all of him. The head nudged the back of her throat. She relaxed, willed her muscles to open, and pushed further.
She gagged. A violent, convulsive choke that made her eyes slam shut and water instantly. She didn’t pull off. She held there, breathing hard through her nose, her throat fluttering wildly around the invading tip. The water from the shower sprayed directly into her nostrils. She coughed, sputtered, a messy, wet sound lost in the drumming spray. Saliva and water dripped from her chin.
“Fuck,” Jason grunted above her. His hands came down, not to push her away, but to fist in her soaking hair. He gathered the wet strands at her scalp, his grip anchoring her. “Take it.”
He pulled her forward.
It wasn’t gentle. He shoved her head down, forcing his cock deeper into her throat. She gagged again, her body instinctively trying to rebel, to expel the obstruction. He held her there, his hips giving a slight, insistent thrust. The head popped past her constricted muscles into a deeper, tighter channel. Her eyes flew open, blurred with tears and water. She looked up at him, her vision swimming. His jaw was clenched, his nostrils flared. He was watching her struggle with a fierce, concentrated hunger.
He pulled her back, letting her gasp a half-breath of steamy air, then drove her down again. And again. He set a brutal, rhythmic pace, fucking her face with shallow, punishing thrusts. The sounds were obscene: the wet gagging, the slap of his balls against her chin, his ragged grunts mixing with the shower’s white noise. Her throat burned. Her jaw screamed. Tears and snot and spit made a slick mess of her face, washed away by the spray only to be immediately replaced.
“Such a good little cocksucker,” he growled, his voice rough. “Made for this. Made to choke on it.”
He changed the angle, tilting her head back. He pushed deeper. This time, he didn’t stop. He held her nose against his pelvis, his entire length buried in her throat. She couldn’t breathe. Panic, bright and sharp, flashed through her. Her hands came up, scrabbling weakly at his thighs. Black spots danced at the edges of her vision. Just as the need for air became a screaming imperative, he yanked her off.
She collapsed forward, coughing violently, great, whooping gasps that burned her raw throat. She braced her hands on the slippery tub floor, drool and water pouring from her mouth. He let her cough for three seconds.
Then his hand was in her hair again, yanking her head up. His cock, slick with her spit, glistened an angry purple, throbbing. He was close.
“Open,” he commanded.
She did, sticking out her tongue, her chest still heaving. He jerked himself off with three rough, fast strokes. His release hit her face in hot, sudden stripes—across her cheek, her lips, the bridge of her nose. He grunted, his body tensing, pumping out every last drop onto her skin.
He let go of her hair. She stayed there, on her knees, panting, his come mixing with the water on her face. He leaned back against the tile wall, spent, watching her.
Slowly, she raised a hand. She collected a glob of it from her cheek with two fingers, brought it to her mouth, and sucked them clean. She looked him in the eye as she did it. Then she leaned forward, pressing her face into the coarse hair at the base of his softening cock. She nuzzled his balls, heavy and tight, then took one into her mouth, suckling gently, cleaning him with her tongue.
A shudder went through him. His hand came down and rested on her head, not guiding, just resting. The gesture was almost gentle.
“Enough,” he said, his voice quiet, hoarse. “Get up.”
She stood, her legs wobbly. The water was beginning to run cool. He reached past her and shut the faucet off. The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the drip of the showerhead and their ragged breathing. He pushed the curtain all the way open, the rings shrieking in protest.
He stepped out, grabbing a towel. He didn’t dry himself. He turned and wrapped it around her instead, rubbing her arms briskly through the rough terrycloth. He dried her hair with a rough, careless efficiency. Then he tilted her chin up with a finger. His eyes scanned her face—the red-rimmed eyes, the bruised-looking lips. He used the edge of the towel to wipe a stray streak of his own release from her temple.
“You look like hell,” he murmured.
“I feel like heaven,” she whispered back, her voice a rasp.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. It was gone in a heartbeat. He let go of her chin and turned to grab another towel for himself. He dried off in quick, efficient swipes, his back to her.
“Mom and Dad get back tomorrow afternoon,” he said, his voice flat now, all business.
The words landed like a physical blow. The steam-filled sanctuary suddenly felt like a crime scene. The real world, with its rules and consequences, came crashing back in through the bathroom’s humid air. Tomorrow afternoon. The clock they had both been ignoring began to tick, loud and relentless in her head.
“Okay,” she said, because there was nothing else to say.
He hung his towel on the rack and walked out of the bathroom, leaving her standing there, damp and shivering in the sudden, cold reality. She listened to his footsteps cross the hall, heard the soft groan of his mattress as he lay down.
She finished drying herself, moving slowly. She looked at her reflection in the clouded mirror. Her lips were indeed swollen, her eyes bright with a chaotic mix of exhaustion, triumph, and dread. She wiped the last trace of him from her skin.
When she returned to his room, he was on his side, facing the wall, the sheets pulled up to his waist. The lamp was off. The room was dark, save for the streetlight filtering through the blinds.
She slid into bed behind him, respecting the space he’d left. She didn’t press against his back. She lay on her side, watching the stark line of his shoulder in the gloom.
He was awake. She could tell by the tension in his silhouette.
“Jason?” she whispered.
He didn’t answer for a long time. “Go to sleep, Angel.”
“What happens tomorrow?”