Chapter 90: Morning Devotion
The roar that tore from Ethan’s throat wasn’t just sound; it was a physical force, a final, shattering release of the taut, coiled energy that had been building in him since he’d first woken to her warmth against him. It was a declaration, raw and unvarnished, that echoed off the marble and steamed glass of the bathroom, mingling with Olivia’s answering scream.
His hips slammed forward, burying him to the hilt inside the scorching, clenching heat of her. There was no gentle pulse, no slow welling. It was a geyser, a torrent. His release was immediate and violent, a floodgate torn open deep in his core. He could feel it, a hot, thick rope jetting from him, surging up the length of his shaft to erupt directly into her depths. The force of it made her jolt against the vanity, her cry morphing into a choked, guttural sob of pure fulfillment.
“Yes! Oh, god, yes, son! Give it!” she shrieked, her fingers scrambling for purchase on the slippery marble, her head thrown back, tendons standing out in her elegant neck.
He obeyed. The second spurt followed hard on the first, then a third. Each was a convulsive, full-bodied event, wrenching his frame with its intensity. He held himself deep, grinding against the rounded globes of her ass, as the torrent continued. It wasn’t stopping. It was, as always, immense. A seemingly endless pump of hot, vital fluid flooding her, claiming the intimate space he’d carved for himself.
He could feel the change in her. The internal pressure. Her stomach, already flat and toned against the counter’s edge, gave the slightest, most delicate swell. It was a subtle rounding, a warm filling. He watched it, mesmerized, as he kept coming, his own abdomen clenching with the effort of expulsion. She felt it too. Her hand flew from the counter to press against her lower belly, her eyes wide with awe in the foggy mirror.
“So much,” she breathed, the fight gone from her voice, replaced by a hushed, reverent wonder. “I can feel it… pooling inside me. Oh, baby… you’re filling me up.”
He was. The sensations were a feedback loop of overwhelming pleasure. The rhythmic, involuntary clenching of his own cock as it spent itself. The hot, liquid pressure flooding a cavity not designed for it. The tight, protesting grasp of her muscle around him, struggling to contain the deluge. The sight of her hand pressed to the slight, impossible bulge his seed was creating.
It went on for minutes. Long, shuddering, continuous minutes where the only sounds were their ragged breathing, the drip of the abandoned shower, and the wet, sickly-sweet slap of their joined bodies as he pulsed into her. Finally, with a last, few, weaker twitches, it was done. He was spent, empty, a hollow vessel.
He slumped over her, his chest heaving against her sweat-slicked back, his forehead resting between her shoulder blades. The smell of sex and lavender and his own release was overpowering. He was still inside her, softening slightly but lodged deep.
For a long moment, neither moved. They were statues in the golden, steam-thick light, connected, breathing as one. The world outside the bathroom, the city of London waking up, did not exist.
Olivia was the first to stir. She let out a soft, satiated sigh, the sound seeming to come from the very depths of her filled body. She pushed back gently against him, a tender, insistent pressure.
“Don’t pull out,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “Not yet. Stay in me.”
“I’m not going anywhere, ma,” he murmured into her skin, planting a soft kiss on her spine.
“Good.” She shifted, wincing slightly. “Help me up. My knees are locking.”
He withdrew slowly, the sensation making them both gasp—him from the sensitivity, her from the sudden, liquid emptiness. A slow, creamy trickle escaped her as he left her, tracing a path down the inside of her thigh. He ignored it, his focus entirely on her. He took her weight, his hands strong under her arms, lifting her until she stood, shaky-legged, against him.
She turned in his embrace, her body colliding softly with his. Her face was flushed, her eyes dazed and heavy-lidded. She looked utterly wrecked and incandescently happy. She reached up, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw.
“You ruined my brushing,” she said, a ghost of a smile on her swollen lips.
He chuckled, the sound rough. “You started it.”
“Mm. I did.” She leaned into him, resting her head on his chest. They stood like that for a minute, two, listening to each other’s hearts slow. The warmth of their bodies fought the cooling air of the bathroom. He could feel the slight, firm curve of her belly pressed against his own.
Finally, she pulled back, looking toward the huge, floor-to-ceiling glass wall that separated the bathroom proper from the separate, rainforest-style shower enclosure. The glass was fogged from their heat, turning the world beyond into a soft, white blur.
“I’m sticky,” she said, simple as stating the weather. “And you’ve painted me.” She looked down at herself, at the gleaming, drying trails on her skin.
“I like my art,” he said, running a hand over the slope of her hip.
She smirked. “It’s a bit… abstract.” She took his hand, lacing her fingers with his. “Come on. Let’s get clean. And then…”
“And then?”
She glanced at the fogged glass, then back at him, a new, lazy hunger in her eyes. “And then I want you inside me again. But slower. So slow it hurts. I want to watch the city while you fuck my ass.”
A fresh jolt of desire, powerful and deep, shot through him. He was softening, but her words, the stark, loving vulgarity of them, stirred him back to life. He nodded, unable to speak.
She led him the few steps to the glass wall. With her free hand, she reached out and swiped a long, clear streak through the condensation, revealing a slice of London morning. The sky was a pale, watery blue, streaked with high, wispy clouds. The buildings, a mix of old stone and modern glass, stood in sharp relief. Far below, the Thames was a ribbon of dull metal, beginning to sparkle as the sun climbed higher.
She found the handle and slid the glass panel open. The atmosphere changed instantly. The shower area was a jungle of green tile and dark slate, with multiple showerheads set at different heights. The air inside was cooler, still damp from their earlier use. She stepped in, pulling him after her.
She didn’t reach for the controls immediately. Instead, she turned and pressed him back against the now-clear glass wall. The city sprawled behind him, a panoramic backdrop to her nakedness. She placed her hands on his chest, looking up at him.
“Just stay right there,” she commanded softly. She leaned in, kissing him deeply. Her tongue slipped into his mouth, and he could taste the faint, lingering mint of toothpaste, and something deeper, muskier, uniquely her. Her hands slid down his torso, over his stomach, taking him in her grasp. He was half-hard, thickening rapidly under her attentions.
“Look at you,” she whispered against his lips, her hand moving in a slow, sure stroke. “Always ready for me. Always so eager to get back in.”
“You’re addictive, mother,” he groaned, his head thumping back against the cool glass.
“Good.” She released him and turned, bending forward slightly, bracing her hands on the slate bench set into the wall. She presented herself to him again, and to the vast window beyond. The view was staggering. Her perfect, round ass, still reddened from his grip, the dark, wet evidence of his possession glistening at its center. And beyond her, through the clear glass, the entirety of London waking up, unaware of the obscene, beautiful tableau framed in this high hotel window.
“Take me,” she said, her voice a low, throaty command. “Like this. Let them all see.”
He knew they couldn’t, not really. The angle, the height, the reflective glass—they were a secret in a tower of secrets. But the illusion, the audacity of it, was electric. He stepped forward, his renewed hardness finding her entrance with an unerring accuracy borne of countless repetitions. He pushed in, not with the frantic force of before, but with a slow, inexorable pressure that made her gasp and arch her back.
“Oh, fuck… yes… just like that…” she moaned, her forehead dropping to her arms crossed on the bench.
He seated himself fully, then stopped. He was buried again, wrapped in that impossible, silken heat. He leaned over her, his chest against her back, his mouth at her ear. “You feel like heaven, mum.”
“It’s hell,” she corrected breathlessly, a smile in her voice. “A beautiful, perfect hell. Now move, baby. But slow. Make it last.”
He began to move. It was a rhythm of pure, languid sensuality. A slow withdrawal, almost to the tip, followed by an even slower, grinding return. Each stroke was a minute-long exploration of sensation. He watched the powerful muscles of her back work, watched the play of light on her damp skin. He watched the city—a double-decker bus crawling like a red toy far below, a plane tracing a white scratch across the sky.
The casualness of it was intoxicating. The monumental intimacy of the act juxtaposed with the mundane glory of a Tuesday morning.
After a few minutes of this deep, slow rocking, she reached out a trembling hand and twisted the nearest shower control. Water cascaded from a wide, ceiling-mounted rain head, a sudden, warm downpour that drenched them both instantly. It plastered her hair to her scalp, streamed in rivulets down the sculpted valley of her spine, over the curves of her ass, where their bodies were joined. The sound filled the enclosure, a steady, drumming white noise.
The heat was exquisite. It loosened muscles already strained, washed away the dried salt and sweat, added a new, slippery dimension to their coupling. The water made her skin gleam like pearl under the now-brightening morning light.
He kept his pace, relentless in its slowness. The water ran over his shoulders, down his chest, pooled where their bodies met. It was a baptism of a different kind.
“You’re so deep,” she sighed, the words barely audible over the shower’s roar. She turned her head to the side, resting her cheek on her arm so she could see the city. “Look at it all. So many people. So many little lives.”
He followed her gaze, his own movements becoming almost automatic, a primal, heartbeat rhythm. “What do you think they’re doing?”
“Making tea,” she murmured, a dreamy quality in her voice. “Arguing about the news. Worrying about bills. Kissing their husbands goodbye.” She pushed back against him, taking him even deeper, drawing a sharp breath. “None of them… oh, god… none of them are getting their asses fucked by their beautiful son in a shower overlooking Hyde Park.”
He laughed, a short, breathless sound. “Probably not.”
“Their loss,” she said, and he could hear the grin in her voice. She was quiet for a few strokes, her breath hitching each time he sank home. “Do you think anyone can see? From one of those other towers?”
He glanced out. The buildings stood, impersonal and blind. “Maybe. If they had a telescope.”
“Mmm. I hope they do. I hope some boring financier is looking through his telescope right now and sees this… sees you… fucking your mother’s brains out…” Her voice trailed off into a moan as he angled his hips, hitting a spot that made her toes curl against the slate floor.
“Would that turn you on?” he asked, his voice low and rough by her ear. “Being watched?”
She considered it, her body undulating with his slow thrusts. “No,” she said finally, with a serene certainty. “It’s not for them. It’s for us. This… this view… it’s just our wallpaper. This is our world. Right here. Just your cock in my ass, and the water, and the sky.” She reached a hand back, blindly finding his thigh, her nails digging in lightly. “It’s perfect.”
They lapsed into a comfortable silence, broken only by the sound of the shower, their increasingly labored breathing, and the soft, wet sounds of their union. The pace was torturous and wonderful. It built pleasure not in sharp spikes, but in a slow, rising tide, a warmth that spread from his groin out to the very tips of his fingers and toes. He could feel every minute ridge inside her, every flutter and clench. He could feel the water running between their skin, hot then cooler as it ran in sheets down their bodies.
“Tell me about your day,” she said suddenly, her voice calm, conversational, as if they were having breakfast.
He was thrown for a second, his rhythm faltering. He recovered, slowing even further. “My day?”
“Yeah. Work. What’s on your calendar?”
He snorted, burying his face in her wet hair. “I have a sprint planning meeting at ten. Virtually. With the San Jose team.”
“Fun,” she deadpanned, then gasped as he punctuated the word with a particularly deep thrust. “Oh! Don’t… don’t stop the meeting talk. I like it.”
He smiled against her neck. “Then I’m debugging that payment module integration. The one that’s been throwing null pointer exceptions.”
“Sounds filthy,” she moaned, pushing back against him.
“It is. Very… hard… to… penetrate.” He drove the words home with slow, deliberate strokes.
She giggled, the sound beautiful and absurd. “You’re a dork.”
“Your dork.”
“Mine.” Her voice softened. “What time’s your meeting?”
“Ten.”
She hummed, calculating. The water was beginning to run cooler. She reached back with a shaky hand and adjusted the temperature, bringing it back to steaming hot. “It’s eight-fifteen now. We have time.”
“For what?”
“For you to finish. And then…” She turned her head, her eyes finding his over her shoulder. They were dark with promise. “And then I want you to come on my tits. I want to lie back on that bench and watch you stroke yourself over me while I play with them. I want to see your face when you let go. I want to wear you all day, under my clothes, while I go to my fitting.”
The image was vivid, visceral. His pace, which had remained languid, quickened almost imperceptibly. A surge of possessive heat flushed through him.
“Yeah?” he grunted.
“Yeah.” She pushed herself upright, his cock sliding within her as she moved. She turned within the circle of his arms, the water sluicing over her face, her breasts bumping against his chest. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her body undulating in a slow, sinuous grind against his. “I want your marks on me. I want to sit in a room with stylists and photographers and know that under my dress, my skin is sticky with my son’s come.” She kissed him, hard and demanding. “Now fuck me properly. Fuck me until I can’t think straight. Then give me what I want.”
The shift was instantaneous. The lazy, romantic pace shattered. He hooked his arms under her thighs, lifting her effortlessly. She yelped, then laughed, wrapping her legs around his waist, her arms tightening around his neck. He turned, pressing her back against the now-warm glass of the wall. The city was a blur of color and motion behind her head.
He drove into her, the new angle breathtaking. The slow, deep thrusts were gone, replaced by a powerful, piston-like rhythm that hammered her against the glass. The shower beat down on them, the sound of the water merging with the slap of skin on wet skin, with her sharp, begging cries.
“Yes! Ethan! Like that! Fuck, yes! Right there! Don’t you dare stop!”
He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He was a machine built for this single purpose: to bury himself in this woman, to lose himself in her heat, her scent, her voice. He fucked her with a focused intensity, each thrust a punctuation mark to her gasps and moans. Her breasts crushed against his chest, her nails scored his back. She chanted his name, a mantra lost in the steam and the roar.
“Gonna come… Mum… I’m gonna come…” The warning was torn from him, a raw scrape of sound.
“Not inside!” she shrieked, her eyes flying open, wide and desperate. “My tits! On my tits, baby! Please!”
With a final, Herculean effort, he pulled out. The sensation was brutal