Chapter 2: Steam and Confessions
The water hit his shoulders like a thousand tiny needles, hot enough to sting, hot enough to burn away the last lingering traces of Tarryn's perfume from his skin. Brandon pressed his palms flat against the cool tile, head bowed, letting the spray cascade down his spine. The steam rose around him in thick, curling tendrils, fogging the frosted glass until the world beyond it dissolved into shapeless gray.
He closed his eyes.
The memory played behind his lids like a film reel he couldn't stop: Tarryn's hips rolling against his, her breasts swaying with each thrust, the way her mouth had fallen open when she came. Gabby's taste still lingered on his tongue, a phantom sweetness he couldn't wash away no matter how hard he tried. His cock twitched at the recollection, half-hard despite the exhaustion settled deep in his bones.
What the fuck did we just do?
The question circled his mind like a vulture. He'd crossed a line tonight—hell, he'd sprinted past it—and there was no version of tomorrow where things went back to normal. The thought should have terrified him. Instead, it sent a strange, electric thrill down his spine.
He heard the shower door slide open behind him.
The cool air that rushed in was a shock against his heated skin, but it was nothing compared to the warmth of the body that pressed against his back. Soft curves molded to his spine. Slim arms wrapped around his waist. Her cheek rested between his shoulder blades, and he felt the steady thrum of her heartbeat through his skin.
"You left," Tarryn murmured against his back.
Brandon didn't turn around. Couldn't. Not yet. "Needed to wash off."
"I know." Her hands traveled down his stomach, fingers tracing the ridges of muscle he'd earned from years of early-morning gym sessions and stress. "But you didn't have to do it alone."
The water streamed over both of them now, plastering her shoulder-length brown hair to her neck, rivulets carving paths down her collarbone. He felt every inch of her—the press of her perky breasts against his back, the soft mound of her pussy against his ass, the way her thighs bracketed his with a possessive kind of ease.
"Tarryn." His voice came out hoarse.
"Mm?"
"We shouldn't—"
"Why not?"
She said it so simply, so casually, like there was no reason in the world they shouldn't be doing exactly this. Her fingers found the base of his cock, already thickening again, and stroked him with a lazy, knowing grip that made his knees buckle.
"You're hard again," she observed, her breath warm against his ear. "That doesn't feel like a man who wants to stop."
He turned.
The movement was abrupt, water sluicing off his shoulders as he faced her, and suddenly she was right there—blue eyes dark with want, lips parted, water beading on her eyelashes. She looked like something from a fever dream. Something he had no business touching.
But he touched her anyway.
His hands found her hips, pulling her flush against him. Her wet skin slid against his, and she gasped at the contact, her fingers curling into his forearms. He backed her into the tile, the cold shock of it making her arch against him, and his mouth claimed hers before she could catch her breath.
She tasted like rainwater and wine and something darker underneath. Her tongue met his with equal hunger, sliding and stroking, and her hands were everywhere—his shoulders, his chest, his face—like she couldn't decide where to land.
His cock pressed against her stomach, hard and insistent, and she rolled her hips forward, grinding against him with a teasing friction that made him groan into her mouth.
"Fuck," he breathed, breaking the kiss. "You're going to kill me."
"Not yet." Her smile was wicked, water dripping from her chin. "I'm not done with you."
She turned in his arms, presenting her back to him, palms flat against the tile. The position was unmistakable. Invitation and demand all at once. Water streamed down the curve of her spine, tracing the indentation of her waist, the perfect round of her ass.
Brandon's mouth went dry.
"You sure?" he asked, and he hated how uncertain he sounded. How vulnerable.
She looked over her shoulder, that same wicked smile playing on her lips. "I've never been more sure of anything. Now fuck me, Brandon. Before I change my mind."
He didn't need to be told twice.
His hands gripped her hips, fingers digging into the wet flesh, and he stepped closer, the head of his cock sliding between her ass cheeks. She shivered, pressing back against him, and he guided himself lower, finding her entrance slick and waiting.
He pushed inside.
She was tight and hot and wet—slicker than before, the water providing a different kind of friction—and he sank into her slowly, inch by inch, feeling her stretch around him with a groan that vibrated through her entire body. Her fingers scrabbled against the tile, searching for purchase, and he watched her back arch, her head fall forward.
"God," she gasped. "Yes. Just like that."
He began to move.
The rhythm started slow—deep, deliberate strokes that let him feel every inch of her—but it didn't stay that way. Tarryn pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts with a desperate urgency, and the sound of their bodies slapping together echoed off the bathroom walls, harsh and obscene.
The steam wrapped around them like a second skin. The mirror was completely fogged now, their reflections reduced to shadows and suggestion. He watched himself in that blurry ghost image—watched the flex of his muscles, the grip of his hands on her hips, the way his ass clenched with every thrust—and felt something primal clawing its way up his throat.
"Harder," Tarryn demanded, her voice wrecked. "Fuck me harder."
He complied.
His hips slammed into her, each strike of his groin against her ass driving her forward, and she braced herself against the wall, moaning without shame. The water ran in rivers down her back, pooling in the small of her waist, splashing with each violent movement.
"You like that?" His own voice sounded foreign to him—low and rough and filthy. "You like taking my cock like this?"
"Yes," she panted. "Yes, yes, fuck, yes."
He reached around her, his fingers finding her clit, and she screamed. The sound was sharp and sudden, cutting through the hiss of the shower, and he felt her clench around him, her orgasm ripping through her in waves. Her knees buckled, but he held her up, his arm banded across her chest, his fingers still working her as she rode out the pleasure.
"That's it," he growled against her ear. "Come for me. Make a mess on my cock."
She sobbed something unintelligible, her body convulsing, and he felt his own release building—hot and tight and inevitable. He fucked her through it, slamming into her with a brutality that surprised him, and when he finally came, it was with a roar that filled the small room.
He pulled out, and she sagged against the tile, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The water continued to fall, washing away the evidence of what they'd just done, but Brandon knew the marks were deeper than skin.
He turned her to face him.
Her eyes were glassy, her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen. She looked beautiful and broken and completely satisfied. He cupped her face in his hands, tilting her head back, and kissed her softly, gently, more tender than he had any right to be.
"Whoa," she whispered against his mouth.
"Yeah." He laughed, a breathless sound. "Whoa."
"You know this doesn't change anything, right?" She said it firmly, but he could hear the question buried underneath. "I'm not trying to steal you. I'm not trying to break up your marriage."
"I know."
"I just—I wanted this. I've wanted it for so long, and I couldn't stop thinking about it, and now—"
"Tarryn." He silenced her with another kiss. "I know."
She pulled back, searching his face. Whatever she found there seemed to satisfy her, because she nodded slowly, and the tension in her shoulders eased.
What he couldn't say—what he was afraid to even think—was that it didn't feel like just a thing that had happened. It felt like the start of something. Something that had been building for longer than any of them wanted to admit.
He reached for the soap, suddenly wanting to scrub away the thoughts along with the sweat. The hotel soap was small and wrapped in paper, and he fumbled with it under the water. He turned back to the spray, letting it beat against his face, and when he opened his eyes, he saw his wife standing on the other side of the glass.
She was watching them. Silent. Unreadable.
Brandon's heart stopped.
Gabby stood in the doorway, wrapped in a silk robe that clung to her curves, her blonde hair still tangled from earlier. Her arms were crossed, her weight shifted to one hip, and she looked like she'd been there for a while. Long enough to see. Long enough to know.
The steam curled between them, distorting her features, making her look like a ghost. Or maybe that was just the guilt, painting everything in shades of gray.
He shut off the water. The sudden silence was deafening.
"Gabby," he started, but he had no idea what came next.
She stepped into the bathroom, her bare feet padding against the tile. She moved past the shower door and stopped in front of the fogged mirror. Lifting her hand, she wiped a streak through the condensation, just wide enough to see her own reflection looking back at her.
"Don't stop on my account," she said quietly, her voice carrying an edge that made the hair on his arms stand up.
Tarryn pressed herself against his back again, a hand resting on his stomach, her mouth at his ear. "Should I go?" she whispered, barely audible.
He didn't get a chance to answer.
"No," Gabby said, popping out of the fog like a specter. "Stay." She turned from the mirror, her eyes sweeping over them both. "I told him I wanted to see what he'd do with you. I meant it."
Brandon's mouth opened, but nothing came out.
Gabby's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Did you think I'd changed my mind? Or that I'd be out there crying into my wine?"
"I—"
"I watched you." Her voice dropped. "The whole thing. From the doorway. You put on quite a show."
The words hit him like a physical blow. He'd been so lost in Tarryn, so consumed by the heat and the need, that he hadn't even noticed his wife standing ten feet away. The realization sent a complicated cocktail of shame and arousal coursing through him.
"You liked it," he said, testing the words.
Gabby's smile widened, and this time it was genuine. "I loved it."
She stepped closer, close enough that the heat from the shower reached her, and the moisture in the air began to condense on her skin. She lifted her hand and touched his chest, fingers trailing through the wet hair there.
"You were never going to leave me," she said softly. "I know that. But I also know you needed this. You both did."
Tarryn's arms tightened around him. "Gabby—"
"It's okay." She reached past him, her fingers brushing against Tarryn's cheek. "I'm not mad. I'm not hurt. I'm—" She paused, searching for the word. "Grateful."
Brandon felt like he'd been dropped into an alternate dimension. Nothing about this night made sense. Nothing about his wife made sense. She should be furious. She should be throwing things. Instead, she was standing here, touching Tarryn's face, looking at him like he'd just given her a gift.
"I don't understand," he admitted.
Gabby leaned in, pressing her lips to his chest, right over his heart. "You don't have to. Not tonight."
She straightened, her eyes meeting Tarryn's over his shoulder. Something passed between them—a silent acknowledgment, a shared understanding—and then Gabby turned and walked toward the door.
"Don't take too long," she said from the threshold. "I'm going to pour some more wine."
And then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving them alone with the steam and the silence and the weight of everything that had just happened.
Brandon let out a shaky breath. "What the fuck."
Tarryn laughed, a nervous, breathless sound. "I think we just got permission."
"Permission for what?"
She turned him to face her, her hands flat on his chest, her eyes searching his. "For whatever comes next."
He nodded. "I think you're right."
He reached past her and turned the water back on, pulling her under the spray with him. The heat was a comfort now, a respite from the confusion, and he held her close, letting the water wash over them both.
"I'm going to need a lot more wine," he said eventually.
Tarryn snorted. "Buddy, I'm going to need a whole vineyard."
Together, they stepped out of the shower, leaving the steam and the shadows behind. Brandon took her hand and led her into the bedroom, where Gabby stood waiting.
Brandon took her hand and led her into the bedroom, where Gabby stood waiting.
She hadn't poured more wine. The bottle sat untouched on the nightstand, condensation beading on the glass, and Gabby was exactly where they'd left her—except she'd shed the silk robe. It pooled on the floor at her feet like something discarded in haste. She wore nothing but the flush creeping up her chest, the same flush she'd worn when she'd watched them through the fogged glass.
Brandon's throat tightened.
Tarryn's hand tightened around his, her wet hair dripping onto the carpet, her body still steaming from the shower. Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke. The space between the three of them felt heavy, thick with something unspoken, and Brandon realized with a jolt that he had no idea what came next.
Gabby broke the silence.
"Come here," she said.
It wasn't a request. Her voice carried the same quiet authority she used in her classroom, the tone that made thirty teenagers sit up straight and pay attention. Brandon felt his feet moving before his brain caught up, Tarryn trailing behind him, and when they reached the bed, Gabby's hand shot out and caught his wrist.
She pulled him down onto the mattress. The sheets were still tangled from earlier, still carrying the scent of their sweat and sex, and Brandon landed on his back with a grunt. Gabby climbed over him, her thighs bracketing his hips, her blonde waves curtaining her face. She looked down at him with those warm blue eyes, and for a moment, he saw nothing but love there.
Then she smiled, and it turned into something else entirely.
"You're going to watch this time," she said.
Brandon's cock twitched against her stomach. "Watch?"
"Watch." She leaned down, her lips brushing his ear, her breath hot and damp. "You got to have her. You got to fuck her in the shower while I stood there and watched. Now it's my turn."
Tarryn made a sound—low and needy, almost a whimper—and Gabby's head snapped toward her.
"On the bed," Gabby commanded. "On your back."
Tarryn didn't hesitate. She crawled onto the mattress, her wet hair fanning out across the pillow, her perky breasts rising and falling with shallow breaths. She looked nervous. She also looked aroused. The combination made Brandon's mouth water.
Gabby shifted off him, settling onto her knees between Tarryn's legs. She ran her hands up Tarryn's thighs, slow and deliberate, watching the way Tarryn's muscles twitched at the touch. When her fingers reached the slick heat between Tarryn's legs, she paused.
"You're still wet," Gabby observed. "From him. From the shower."
"Yes," Tarryn whispered.
"Do you want me to stop?"
"No." The word came out desperate. "Please. Don't stop."
Gabby smiled, and then she lowered her head.
Brandon watched.
He couldn't have looked away if the house had caught fire. Gabby's tongue traced a slow line up Tarryn's slit, and Tarryn gasped, her hips bucking off the mattress. Gabby's hands pressed her back down, holding her in place, and then her mouth was working—licking and sucking and tasting with a focus that made Brandon's chest ache. He'd been on the receiving end of that mouth for a decade. He knew exactly what it could do.
Tarryn's fingers tangled in Gabby's hair. Her thighs trembled. Her moans filled the room, ragged and shameless, and Brandon felt his cock hardening against his stomach, slick with precum, aching with a need he couldn't act on.
Not yet.
"Fuck," Tarryn gasped. "Oh, fuck, Gabby, right there, don't stop, please don't stop."
Gabby didn't stop. She worked Tarryn with a patience that bordered on cruelty, bringing her to the edge and then easing back, teasing and tasting until Tarryn was sobbing with frustration. Sweat beaded on her forehead. Her hips writhed against Gabby's mouth, and Brandon could see the glisten of her arousal coating Gabby's chin.
"Please," Tarryn begged. "Please, I need to come. Let me come."
Gabby lifted her head. Her lips were swollen, her chin slick, and her eyes blazed with something feral. "Not yet."
She crawled up Tarryn's body, her skin sliding against Tarryn's, and kissed her deeply. Tarryn tasted herself on Gabby's tongue—Brandon could see the way she moaned into the kiss, the way her hands clutched at Gabby's back. When Gabby pulled away, both women were breathing hard.
Gabby turned to look at Brandon. "Come here."
He obeyed.
She positioned him on his back, then straddled his hips, her wet cunt hovering just above his cock. She didn't lower herself onto him. Instead, she reached back and grabbed Tarryn's hand, pulling her forward.
"You," Gabby said to Tarryn, "are going to sit on his face."
Tarryn's eyes widened. "What?"
"You heard me." Gabby's smile was sharp. "He watched us. Now he gets to participate. Sit on his face and let him taste you while I ride his cock."
Brandon's brain short-circuited. "Gabby—"
"Shut up." She looked down at him, and there was no anger in her face, only heat. "You wanted this. You've wanted this for months. Now you're going to take it."
Tarryn climbed over him, her thighs bracketing his head, her cunt hovering inches from his mouth. She smelled like soap and sex, and Brandon's tongue darted out instinctively, seeking her. She lowered herself onto his face with a shaky breath.
The taste of her flooded his senses. She was sweet and salty and still slick from Gabby's mouth, and he licked into her with a hunger that surprised even him. Tarryn cried out, her hands bracing against the headboard, and above her, Gabby finally sank down onto his cock.
The sensation was overwhelming. Tarryn's thighs clenching around his head. Gabby's tight heat engulfing him. He could hear them kissing above him, could feel their bodies moving together, and he was just a vessel, a tool, something for them to use.
He loved it.
"Fuck," Gabby breathed. "He's so hard. Can you feel how hard he is?"
"Yes," Tarryn moaned. "God, yes."
Gabby rode him with a rhythm that was brutal and perfect, her hips slamming down against his, her inner walls clenching around him with every stroke. Brandon couldn't move, couldn't breathe, could only lick and suck at Tarryn's cunt while his wife fucked herself on his cock.
The sounds were obscene. Wet and sloppy and loud. Tarryn's moans grew higher, more desperate, and Brandon felt her thighs begin to shake.
"I'm close," she gasped. "I'm so close."
Gabby leaned forward, her breasts pressing against Tarryn's back, her lips at Tarryn's ear. "Come for him. Let him taste it."
Tarryn shattered.
Her orgasm ripped through her with a violence that made Brandon's ears ring. She gushed against his mouth, hot and slick, and he swallowed every drop, drinking her down while Gabby fucked him harder. He was close—so close—but he held back, waiting, needing Gabby to get there first.
She did.
Her body convulsed around him, her cunt gripping his cock like a fist, and she cried out—a sharp, broken sound that cut through the room. Brandon came with her, his release tearing through him, hot and violent, and for a long moment, none of them moved.
Tarryn collapsed onto the bed beside him. Gabby slumped forward, her forehead against Tarryn's shoulder, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Brandon lay beneath them both, his heart hammering, his mind blank.
"Holy shit," Tarryn whispered.
Gabby laughed—a breathless, exhausted sound. "Yeah."
Brandon stared at the ceiling, trying to process what had just happened. His cock was still buried inside his wife. The taste of her best friend was still on his tongue. And somehow, impossibly, he wanted more.
"What happens now?" he asked.
Gabby lifted her head, looking at him with those warm blue eyes. "Now," she said, "we do it again."