Chapter 131: Hydroerotic Devotion
The silence after the shower’s roar felt sacred, broken only by the drip of water from the tap and their mingled breath. Steam curled lazily toward the vaulted ceiling. On her knees, the marble cool and damp beneath her, Olivia looked up at him. Her eyes held a universe of want, a dark, eager promise. Water droplets caught in her eyelashes like tiny diamonds.
Her hands, delicate yet sure, came up to cradle his hips. Her thumbs stroked the defined V that led downward. He was still hard, magnificently so, glistening and thick from being inside her. A bead of clear fluid welled at the tip. She didn’t speak. She simply leaned forward, her pink tongue outstretched, and collected that single drop with a slow, deliberate pass.
A sharp intake of breath from Ethan. His hands found the back of her head, his fingers threading through the wet, dark strands of her hair. Not pushing. Just holding. Claiming.
“Go on, mum,” he said, his voice roughened by the steam and what had come before. “Clean me up.”
That was all the invitation she needed. Her lips parted, and she took him into her mouth.
It wasn’t a sudden, greedy engulfment. It was a study in gradual possession. Her lips sealed around the broad crown, her tongue flattening against the sensitive underside. She took an inch, then two, her throat working as she adjusted, her eyes locked on his. A low, humming moan vibrated through her and into him. She pulled back, her lips making a soft, wet pop, then dove down again, taking more.
Ethan let his head fall back against the tile with a dull thud. The heat of her mouth was a different creature entirely from the tight clutch of her ass. Softer, wetter, a sucking, sliding paradise. She was an artist with her mouth. She used her tongue to trace the prominent vein running his length, swirled it around the head, then took him deep, until her nose pressed into the dark, trimmed hair at his base. Her throat convulsed around the intrusion, but she held there, her eyes watering slightly, before retreating.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his hips giving an involuntary twitch.
She released him with a slick sound, gasping for air. A string of saliva connected her lower lip to his glistening shaft. “You taste like me,” she whispered, her voice husky. “Like us. Jasmine and sex.” She didn’t wait for a reply. She dove back down, her pace increasing, establishing a rhythm. Out. A twist of her head on the upstroke. A hollowing of her cheeks on the descent.
Ethan reached over and turned the shower back on. Not the full, hammering force, but a gentler, rainforest setting. The water cascaded down in a warm sheet over both of them. It soaked her hair anew, ran in rivulets down her face, over her closed eyelids, and between her breasts. It pounded on Ethan’s shoulders and chest, mixing with the sweat and heat of their prior joining.
The scene was obscenely beautiful. Her on her knees, utterly devoted, the water plastering her hair to her scalp and neck, her body a pale, graceful curve in the golden light. Him standing above, one hand braced against the wall, the other tangled in her hair, his abdomen clenching with each expert pull of her mouth. The sounds were a symphony of wetness: the shower’s patter, the slick, rhythmic gliding of her lips, her muffled gags as she took him deep, the soft, hungry sounds she made in her throat.
“That’s it,” he muttered, his fingers tightening. “Just like that. Take it all.”
She looked up, her eyes meeting his through the curtain of water and steam. There was love there, a fierce, proud love, and a bottomless hunger. She increased her pace, bobbing her head faster, her hands coming up to fondle his heavy sac, rolling his balls gently in her palm. The dual sensation was incredible. He could feel the pressure building, a tight, hot coil in his core.
“Gonna come, mum,” he warned, his voice strained.
She made a frantic, affirmative noise around his flesh and took him even deeper, her throat opening in a practiced swallow. That was the trigger.
The orgasm rolled through him like a thunderclap. It was not a single burst but a sustained, pulsing eruption. He grunted, his body bowing slightly as the first thick, hot jet shot directly down her throat. She swallowed instinctively, her throat working, but the volume was immense. The second pulse flooded her mouth, a rich, salty tang. The third made her pull back, her lips still locked around him, and the seed spilled out past the seal of her lips, white streaks mixing instantly with the clear water cascading over her chin and neck.
It kept coming. A fourth, a fifth pulse, each one a deep, shuddering release from his very center. She stayed with him, milking him with gentle suction, swallowing what she could, letting the excess leak out to be washed away by the shower. Her moans were constant, vibrations of pleasure at his taste, at his surrender to her mouth.
Finally, the pulses subsided into weak twitches. She released him with a final, loving lick, cleaning him tenderly. She sat back on her heels, panting, her face a mess of water and his spend. Some had caught in her eyebrows, on her cheeks. She looked utterly debauched and utterly at peace.
“Good boy,” she murmured, swiping a finger through the mess on her chin and sucking it clean. “So much for me.”
Ethan, breathing heavily, looked down at her. The sight sent a fresh, shocking jolt of arousal through him, even in his spent state. He was still semi-hard, which was typical for him. Recovery was a rapid, eager process. “You’re a vision,” he said, his voice returning to him.
She smiled, a bright, genuine thing. “Hungry?”
“For what?”
“Breakfast. It’s nearly ten. We missed the hotel buffet, but I called down earlier. They’re sending up croissants, chocolate, fruit, coffee. The good stuff.”
“You thought of food while I was fucking your ass?” He chuckled, reaching down to pull her to her feet. She came up smoothly, pressing her slick body against his.
“I think of everything,” she said, kissing his chest. “Especially how to keep my son’s strength up.” Her hand drifted down, wrapping around him. He was already thickening again, responding to her touch like iron to a magnet. She squeezed, a knowing glint in her eye. “See? You need calories.”
The casualness of it, the domesticity woven seamlessly into the depravity, was their normal. He kissed her forehead. “Go dry off. I’ll finish here.”
She gave him a playful squeeze before turning to step out of the shower. He watched her go, the water sheeting off the sublime curve of her back, the perfect swell of her ass, the long, elegant legs. She grabbed a towel and began patting herself dry with an unselfconscious grace, humming a little tune.
Ethan turned his face back into the spray. He soaped himself quickly, efficiently, his mind replaying the feel of her throat convulsing around him. The sweet ache in his groin was already transforming back into a demanding throb. She had that effect. He rinsed off and stepped out onto the heated floor.
She was waiting with his towel. She dried his back, his arms, with a tenderness that contrasted wildly with what her mouth had just done. She knelt again to dry his legs, and as she rose, she took him in her mouth once more, a quick, hot, teasing suck that made him gasp.
“Olivia,” he growled.
She released him with a laugh. “Just a taste of what’s to come. Now, food. You have that Singapore call soon, remember?”
They moved into the main suite, naked and damp. The floor-to-ceiling windows presented a postcard view of Paris awakening, the Seine a grey ribbon under a soft sky. The room service cart was already there, laden with silver domes and a steaming coffee pot. The smell of baked butter and dark chocolate filled the air.
She poured coffee—black for him, a splash of cream for herself—and brought him a cup. They stood at the window, sipping, watching the city. His hand rested on the small of her back, a point of easy contact.
“Think the project leads will notice if my voice is a bit rough?” he asked, taking a bite of a flaky, perfect croissant.
She leaned into him. “Tell them you have a frog in your throat. From the Parisian air.” Her hand strayed, fingers walking down his stomach. “Or from your mother’ throat.”
He laughed, a real, full laugh that felt good. He turned and captured her mouth in a deep kiss, tasting of coffee and herself. She melted against him, her body soft and pliant.
When they broke apart, she sighed, resting her forehead against his. “I love this. I love us. I love this life we’ve made.”
“I know, mum.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Me too.”
But the peaceful moment was a fleeting comma, not a period. Her hand, which had been idly stroking his belly, drifted lower and found him once again. He was fully hard, achingly so. The croissant forgotten, he set his coffee cup down with a click.
Her eyes darkened. “You’re not done.”
“Not even close.”
“The call is in forty minutes.”
“Then we have thirty-nine.” He guided her away from the window, toward the large, low sofa facing the view. “On your knees. Here.”
A thrill went through her, visible in the shiver that rippled across her skin. She obeyed, sinking onto the plush rug before the sofa. He sat on the edge of the cushion, his legs spread. The morning light painted his erection in stark relief.
She didn’t need instruction this time. She leaned in, her mouth latching onto him with a hunger that bordered on desperation. This was different from the shower. This was less about worship and more about consumption. She slurped him deep, her head bobbing fiercely, one hand pumping the base of his shaft where her mouth couldn’t reach. The other hand cupped and squeezed his balls, which were already tightening again, full.
The sounds were lewd, gloriously so. Wet, smacking kisses, guttural gags, her frantic breaths through her nose. Ethan groaned, one hand fisting in her hair, the other gripping the sofa cushion. He watched, mesmerized, as her cheeks hollowed, as her throat bulged with the shape of him.
“You’re so greedy for it,” he managed to say, his voice tight.
She pulled off with a gasp, a long string of saliva breaking. “I’m greedy for you. Always. My son. My beautiful, perfect son.” She dove back down, taking him so deep her lips met her own fingers at the base. She held there, her throat fluttering wildly, until tears sprang from her eyes. Only then did she retreat, gasping for air, before immediately repeating the process.
He was hurtling toward the edge far faster than before. The visual, the sensation, the raw, vocal hunger she exhibited—it was an aphrodisiac more potent than any drug. The coil in his gut wound tighter, hotter, a spring about to snap.
“I’m gonna come again,” he panted. “So soon. Fuck, mum…”
She redoubled her efforts