Chapter 2: A Shower of Praise
The quiet was thick and sweet, broken only by the distant hum of the refrigerator downstairs. Riley’s tear had dried on his skin, a tiny salt mark.Marcus traced the line of her spine, feeling each vertebra like a pearl under his fingertips.
“We’re getting sticky,” he murmured into her hair.
“Your fault,” she mumbled, nuzzling closer, making no move to disentangle.
He laughed, a quiet rumble in his chest.With a sudden, effortless heave, he sat up, cradling her against him. She yelped, her arms flinging around his neck.“Marcus! Warn a girl!”
“Where’s the fun in that?” He stood, her legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. He carried her through the sunlit bedroom, past the tangled sheets that held the scent of them, and into the cool, sleek expanse of the bathroom.He didn’t set her down. Instead, he stepped directly into the spacious shower stall, still holding her, and reached back to twist the knobs.Water erupted from the rainfall head above, a sudden warm cascade that drenched them both. Riley gasped, her head falling back, auburn hair darkening instantly and clinging to her shoulders and cheeks.
The shock of it washed away the last remnants of sleep and spent passion. He finally let her slide down his body until her feet found the textured tile floor. The water plastered his own dark hair to his skull, streamed down the hard planes of his chest and shoulders.
“Okay, show-off,” she said, pushing her hair out of her face, a smirk returning. But her eyes were soft.He reached for the bottle of sandalwood body wash, squeezing a generous amount into his palm. “Turn around.”
She did, presenting him with the graceful arc of her back, the delicate wings of her shoulder blades, the vibrant tapestry of ink that told stories of rebellion and growth. He started there, his soap-slick hands massaging the tension from her muscles, tracing the familiar lines of a serpent coiled around a rose, the elegant script he knew by heart.
His touch was methodical, worshipful.He washed every inch. The strong curve of her shoulders, the dip of her waist, the swell of her hips. He dropped to his knees on the shower floor, the water pounding his back, and washed the long lines of her legs, her calves, each toe. When his hands moved back up, over the firm rounds of her ass, she sighed, leaning her forearms against the cool glass wall.
His hands moved with a tender, clinical care around the sensitive skin of her balls, soaping the scrotum, before his fingers gently lathered the shaft of her cock, which lay half-soft against her thigh. There was no erotic charge to it in this moment; it was pure, intimate maintenance.An act of love as mundane and profound as watering a plant.
“You are so beautiful,” he said, his voice barely audible over the drumming water. “Every single part of you. The most stunning woman I’ve ever seen.”
A shudder ran through her that had nothing to do with the heat of the water. She turned, her eyes glistening more than the spray could account for.She took the bottle from his hand.
“My turn.”
He rose, water sluicing from him, and let her push him gently against the wall. Her hands, slick with soap, painted over the landscape of his chest, through the dark hair there, over the firm pads of his pectorals. She paid attention to the hollows of his collarbones, the cords of his neck, the strong line of his jaw. She washed his arms, his biceps, the sensitive inner skin of his elbows.As she knelt before him, her movements slowed. She washed his thighs, his knees, his shins, with the same reverence he had shown her. Her fingers traced the old, faint scar on his knee from a childhood bike jump. When her soapy hands cupped his balls, then his soft cock, she looked up at him, water caught in her eyelashes.“You make me feel so safe,” she said, her voice raw with honesty. “Like I can just… be.All of me.”
He tangled his hands in her wet hair. “You are all of you. And it’s everything.”
She rested her forehead against his stomach for a moment, the water beating down on them both. Then she rose, and they stood face-to-face, letting the water rinse the suds away, a curtain of liquid light between them. They were just two bodies, clean and real, under a warm flood.
He reached out and turned the water off. The sudden silence was jarring, filled only with the drip-drip from the showerhead and their breathing.Steam fogged the glass door, sealing them in their own private, blurry world.
He grabbed a large, fluffy towel and wrapped her in it first, rubbing vigorously until she giggled and protested. He toweled himself off quickly, then used a second towel to carefully squeeze the water from her long hair.
Back in the bedroom, the sunlight had moved, now pooling warmly on the rug.Riley stood at the window, the towel draped around her shoulders, looking out at the quiet street. A calm had settled over her, a peaceful silence that replaced the morning’s fiery energy.
Marcus pulled on a pair of soft cotton pants and came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her damp head. “What’s on the docket today, superstar?”
She leaned back into him.“Two clients. A cover-up at eleven, and then a big, gothic piece on a thigh—starting the linework today. Probably six hours total.” She tilted her head.“You? Staring at the blank page until it confesses?”
“Something like that.I’ve got that chapter about the vineyard’s first harvest. It’s all about patience, waiting for the right moment to pick.” He kissed her temple. “Might need to do some hands-on research.”
She turned in his arms, her smirk returning, but it was softer now.“Oh yeah?Well, this vintage is already bottled. And you had your tasting.”
He grinned.“Best vintage ever.”
Downstairs, the coffee machine gurgled to life. The day was beginning, the world outside their sun-drenched sanctuary waiting. But here, for a few more stolen minutes, they were just Marcus and Riley, anchored in the quiet aftermath of love, clean and whole and ready for whatever came next.