Chapter 8: The shower continues
The steam hung thick, tasting of almonds and wet skin. Liam’s hand rested heavy and warm low on her stomach, the gritty scrub a slick barrier between his palm and the damp lace. His eyes, dark and unreadable beneath wet lashes, held hers. Waiting. Go lower? The question screamed in the humid air, louder than the water pounding on their shoulders.
Ella’s breath hitched. She needed space. Air. A second to untangle the frantic knot in her chest. "Your turn," she blurted, the words tumbling out too fast. "Let me... scrub you? Give me... a break." She gestured vaguely at the jar still perched on the ledge, slick with condensation.
Liam blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before it smoothed into something more guarded. He slowly withdrew his hand from her stomach. The absence of his touch felt suddenly cold. "Yeah. Okay." His voice was rough. "If you want." He shifted, turning slightly, presenting his side. Water streamed down the hard planes of his chest, already gleaming faintly from the earlier application she’d done on his back. "Chest's mostly done. Unless you missed a spot?"
Ella’s gaze darted over the defined muscles, the scattering of dark hair plastered flat. Her own fingers, coated in residual oil, felt clumsy. Think. Focus on the task. "Thighs?" The word slipped out before she could censor it. It felt safer. Distant. Less charged than his back, lower than his waistband. "They could use it.Right?" She reached for the scrub jar, needing to occupy her hands.
Liam turned fully to face her again, a slow, deliberate movement. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes tracked her movements. "Thighs," he repeated. A beat passed. Then, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched his lips. "Sure. Go for it." He braced one hand back against the wet wall, widening his stance slightly. The dark blue boxers, soaked through now, clung indecently. "Just... careful with the shorts, yeah? These were stupidly expensive." He gestured with his chin towards the soaked cotton. "Oil stains are a bitch."
The mundane warning, delivered in his low rumble against the backdrop of steam and naked tension, was jarring. Ella almost laughed, the sound catching in her tight throat. Expensive boxers. Here.Now. It was absurd. Grounding. She nodded, dipping her fingers into the cool, gritty paste. "Right. Wouldn't want to ruin the fancy underwear." She kept her tone light, ironic, a thin shield.
She knelt on the wet floor of the stall, the fiberglass cool against her knees. The position felt submissive, vulnerable, but it put her eye-level with his thighs. Water sluiced over her head and shoulders, plastering her hair to her scalp. She focused on the muscular curve of his quadriceps, the water tracing paths through the dark hair dusting his legs.
Her slick fingers touched the outside of his left thigh, high up, just below the curve of his hip where the boxer leg ended. The skin was warm, firm beneath the cool grit. She began rubbing in slow, firm circles, mimicking the motion he’d used on her back. The coarse granules scraped, the oil spreading. She could feel the power coiled in the muscle under her hand. Don't look up. Just the thigh.
Liam remained still above her, a silent statue braced against the wall. Only his breathing seemed audible now, a steady rhythm just beneath the water's roar. His other hand hung loosely at his side, fingers slightly curled.
She worked downward, her touch methodical. Past the midpoint of his thigh, towards his knee. The scrub felt slippery, the water thinning it quickly. She scooped more from the jar, the earthy scent sharpening. Her fingers brushed the sensitive inner plane of his thigh, higher now, grazing the sopping-wet fabric of his boxers where it clung to his skin. Careful.
A low sound rumbled from above her. Not quite a groan, more like a deep exhalation. Tense. Ella froze, her fingers slick on his skin. Her gaze flickered upwards, against her will.
He was looking down at her. Water streamed over his jaw, down his neck. His eyes were hooded, intense, boring into hers. The heat in them wasn't masked anymore. It was stark. Primal. Her hand still pressed against the warm, gritty skin of his inner thigh, perilously close to the soaked hem of his shorts. The roar of the water seemed to recede, replaced by the deafening thud of her own pulse. His free hand twitched at his side.
"Careful," Liam murmured, echoing her own frantic thought. His voice was thick, stripped bare. It wasn't a warning about the shorts anymore.
Ella’s breath seized. She didn’t move her hand. Couldn’t. The scrub jar slipped from her fingers, clattering loudly onto the shower floor, forgotten. Her gaze remained locked with his. The steam pressed in, thick and suffocating. His thigh muscle tensed hard beneath her palm. The question hung, shimmering in the humid air: Stop? Or go?
He didn’t look away. He just watched her, waiting, the water plastering his dark hair to his forehead, the expensive boxers clinging obscenely low. His stillness was a demand. Ella’s fingers, slick with oil and water and the remnants of crushed almonds, flexed almost imperceptibly against the bare skin high on his inner thigh. One inch. That’s all it would take to slide beneath the wet cotton hem. To find out what he’d do.
Her knuckles brushed the damp fabric. Liam’s sharp intake of breath was like a crack in the silence within the roar. Her own heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trying to escape. She didn’t look away. Neither did he. The next touch wouldn't be about scrub. And they both knew it. The air crackled, thick with steam and the dangerous weight of a single, suspended heartbeat.
The scrape of her knuckles against the wet cotton sent a visible jolt through him. Liam’s hand slammed flat against the tile, fingers splaying wide. His other fist clenched at his side, knuckles white. Water sheeted down his rigid form, tracing the hard lines of his jaw, his throat working as he swallowed thickly.
Ella’s gaze snapped up, locked onto his. The intensity was scorching, raw, stripping away any pretense. His eyes weren’t just dark now; they were fathomless, holding hers prisoner. The air vibrated with something beyond steam – pure, undiluted wanting. Her own breath came in shallow gasps, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She didn’t pull her hand back.
His voice, when it came, was stripped down to gravel. "Ella." Just her name. A question. A warning. A plea. It hung there, thick as the steam, charged with everything unsaid. His chest rose and fell sharply beneath the slick sheen of oil and water.
Her fingers, still resting perilously close to the soaked hem of his shorts, trembled slightly. Not from fear, but from the sheer voltage humming between them. The absurdity of the expensive boxers, the gritty scrub forgotten on the floor, the water drowning out the world – it all coalesced into a single, sharp point of clarity. She tilted her chin up, meeting the furnace of his stare head-on.
"This is ridiculous," she stated, her voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor in her limbs. She gestured vaguely towards the clinging blue fabric with her free hand, the motion sending droplets flying. "I don't want to ruin your fancy underwear." She held his gaze, the steam curling around them like a cocoon. "We're both adults here, Liam."
He didn't move. Didn't blink. Just watched her, his breath a harsh rasp against the water's roar. Ella felt the heat rise in her own cheeks, a counterpoint to the cool water on her skin. She took a shallow breath, pushing the words out before courage fled. "Just... take the boxers off."
The words hung between them, sharp and sudden as shattered glass. Steam coiled thickly in the charged silence. Liam’s gaze didn’t waver from hers, that intense heat locking her in place. He didn’t speak.
Slowly, deliberately, his hands moved to the soaked waistband of those stupidly expensive blue boxers. His knuckles were white against the dark, clinging fabric. Ella watched, frozen on her knees, water plastering her hair to her neck, the forgotten scrub gritty under her bare shins. The air felt thick enough to choke on.
He hooked his thumbs under the elastic. Paused. His eyes, dark and unreadable, held hers captive. Then, with a single, fluid motion, he pushed them down over his hips. They slid easily over wet skin, heavy with water, pooling around his ankles on the shower floor.
Liam stood before her, utterly exposed. Water streamed down his chest, over the taut muscles of his abdomen, tracing paths through the dark trail of hair below his navel. And there, jutting proudly from the thatch of dark curls, thick and flushed, his cock stood rigidly erect, already fully hard. A bead of moisture gathered at the tip, gleaming under the shower spray.
Ella’s breath hitched, a sharp little gasp lost in the water’s roar. Her gaze snapped down, then jerked back up to his face, cheeks burning despite the steam. He hadn’t moved. Just stood there, braced against the wall, watching her reaction with that same unnerving stillness. The sheer size of him, the blatant arousal, was impossible to ignore. Heat flooded her own body, pooling low and insistent.
Jesus Christ, she thought, her mind scrambling. It’s… substantial. The clinical observation felt absurdly inadequate. Her hands, slick with residual almond oil and water, clenched uselessly at her sides. She couldn’t look away from him. Couldn’t pretend this was just about scrubbing thighs anymore. The expensive boxers lay discarded, a sodden blue puddle at his feet.
"Right," Ella managed, her voice sounding thin and strained. She gestured vaguely towards the jar lying forgotten near her knee. "Scrub." The word felt utterly ridiculous. She forced her gaze away from his erection, focusing instead on the jar. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for it, scooping out another dollop of the gritty paste. The earthy scent seemed suddenly overwhelming. "Just… hold still."
She leaned forward, her knees protesting against the hard fiberglass. Her focus landed squarely on his thigh again, the muscular curve slick with water and oil. She pressed her oiled fingers against his skin, just above his knee, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles. The coarse granules scraped. Her knuckles brushed the damp curls at the apex of his thigh. She flinched back slightly.
"Careful," Liam murmured again, his voice a low rasp that vibrated through the steam. It wasn't about the scrub jar this time. His cock twitched visibly, a pulse of pure need. Ella’s throat tightened. She kept her eyes fixed on the patch of skin she was scrubbing, the rhythmic motion of her hand. Don’t look up. Don’t look.
Her fingers moved higher, skirting the sensitive inner plane of his thigh. The heat radiating from him was intense. She could feel the tension coiling in his muscles beneath her touch. Her own pulse hammered in her ears, louder than the shower. She swallowed hard, forcing lightness into her tone she didn't feel. "Thorough job, right? Can't have patchy exfoliation." The joke fell flat, swallowed by the humid air.
She risked a glance upwards, just for a fraction of a second. His jaw was clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek. His eyes were fixed on the top of her head, on her wet hair plastered to her scalp, her bent neck. The raw hunger in his expression stole her breath. Her hand stilled on his inner thigh, perilously close to the base of his cock. The scrub felt slippery, useless.
"Ella," he breathed, just her name, thick with urgency. It wasn't a question now. It was a demand. An invitation. Her gaze flickered down again, drawn irresistibly. Up close, the sheer size was even more daunting, the flushed head glistening. Her mouth went dry. How does that even… fit? The thought was pure, unvarnished shock.
She dragged her eyes back to his thigh, her fingers resuming their slow circles, moving infinitesimally higher. Her thumb brushed the very edge of the dense curls surrounding his erection. Liam hissed, a sharp intake of breath. His hips jerked forward almost imperceptibly. Ella froze. Her heart pounded against her ribs like a trapped bird. The scrub was forgotten, dripping from her fingers onto the wet floor. The steam pressed in, thick and suffocating.
Her hand hovered, slick and trembling, mere inches from the rigid heat of him. The air crackled. Every nerve ending screamed. She could feel the pulse thrumming in his thigh beneath her fingertips. Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her gaze back to his face. His eyes were molten, waiting, burning into hers. The question hung, shimmering and undeniable. Her fingers curled slightly, hovering. Ready. Hesitating. Her fingers hovered. The steam curled around his rigid length. Her breath caught, suspended.