Chapter 9: The Shower Confession
The silence in the dark bedroom was a living thing. It pulsed between them, thick with the scent of sex and sweat and consequence. Josh’s hand was still tangled with hers, their palms damp where they pressed together.
He shifted first, the mattress groaning under his weight. “I should go,” he murmured, his voice rough from use. “Before Zoe wakes up and finds my car gone. Starts asking questions I can’t fucking answer.”
Millie’s fingers tightened around his. A silent rebellion. The thought of him leaving, of this bubble bursting and the cold reality rushing back in, was a physical dread in her stomach.
“Stay.”
The word was barely a whisper, but it hung in the air like a challenge.
He was still for a long moment. She could feel the tension in his arm, the calculation. Then, a slow exhale. “Okay,” he said, the simple agreement feeling monumental. “But I need a shower. I smell like you. And me. And trouble.”
He disentangled his hand and slid out of bed. In the faint light, his naked form was a study in shadows and lean muscle as he padded across the floor. The bathroom door clicked shut. A moment later, the hiss of the shower, the sound of water hitting tile.
Millie lay there, staring at the ceiling. Her body felt used, gloriously sore between her legs. She could still feel the sticky trail of his come on her inner thigh. She listened to the water run, imagining him under the spray, washing her off his skin.
It wasn’t enough.
She got up, her legs slightly unsteady. The floor was cool under her feet. She pushed the bathroom door open without knocking.
Steam billowed out, warm and fragrant with the cheap lavender body wash she used. The glass door of the shower was fogged, his form a blurred, moving shape behind it. She slid it open.
The heat enveloped her. He turned, water sluicing down his chest, over the hard planes of his stomach, dripping from his cock, which was already half-hard again at the sight of her. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead.
She didn’t speak. She stepped into the spray, the water immediately soaking her hair, running in rivulets down her neck and breasts. She moved into him, pressing her body against his back, her arms sliding around his waist. Her nipples, tight from the temperature change, pressed into the wet muscle of his back.
He shuddered. His hands came up to cover hers. He turned in her arms, water spraying, and his mouth found hers.
This kiss was different. Not the bruising conquest of before, but something slower, deeper, more contemplative. A tasting. His tongue slid against hers, languid and exploring. Her hands mapped the slick skin of his shoulders, his back, sliding down to the firm curves of his ass, pulling him closer. He was fully hard now, the thick length of him pressing against her belly.
She broke the kiss, breathing heavily. Without a word, she sank to her knees on the slick tub floor. The water cascaded over her head and shoulders, flattening her hair. She looked up at him through the spray, her green eyes holding his. Her hand wrapped around the base of his cock, feeling the hot, solid weight of him, the throb of his pulse against her palm.
She leaned forward, her tongue darting out to catch a drop of water from the tip. Then she opened her mouth and took him in.
The first inches were a slow, deliberate surrender. Her lips stretched wide around the broad head, her tongue pressing flat against the sensitive underside as she fed him deeper. A guttural groan tore from his throat. His hand came down, fingers weaving into her wet hair, not forcing, just holding.
“Fuck, Millie,” he breathed, his head falling back against the tile with a soft thud.
She hollowed her cheeks, sucking him deeper, until she felt him nudge the back of her throat. She relaxed, taking him in, her nose buried in the dark curls at his base. The steam, the water, the salt-tang of his skin filled her senses. She moved with a rhythmic purpose, one hand working the base of his shaft as her mouth slid up and down, her tongue swirling around the crown with each upward pass. The sounds were obscenely loud in the small space—the wet, rhythmic suck of her mouth, his ragged breathing, the endless drum of the shower.
His hips began to twitch, a shallow, involuntary thrust. “I’m close,” he warned, his voice strained. “So fucking close. Your mouth…”
She didn’t stop. She took him deeper, faster, wanting to taste it, to pull that final surrender from him.
With a rough curse, his hands were under her arms, hauling her up. Water flew. He lifted her as if she weighed nothing, her body sliding against his. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck. He braced one hand against the wet tile beside her head, the other guiding himself to her entrance.
He pushed inside in one long, smooth, breathtaking thrust. She gasped, her head falling back against the tile. He filled her completely, a deep, stretching possession made slick by the water and her own lingering arousal from before.
“Look at me,” he demanded, his voice raw.
She dragged her eyes open. His face was inches from hers, water beading on his lashes, his gaze dark and utterly focused.
He began to move. Slow, at first. Deep, grinding strokes that made her feel every inch of him. The cool tile was at her back, his hot body was pressed against her front, the water pounded down on them both. It created a dizzying, sensory overload. Each thrust was a deliberate claiming, a world away from the frantic pace of the bed. This was something else. Something more dangerous.
“This is insane,” he muttered against her lips, his breath hot. “You know that, right? This is a whole new level of fucked up.”
“I don’t care,” she breathed, biting his lower lip. “Just don’t stop.”
He didn’t. His pace built, the slow grind giving way to harder, more driving thrusts. The water made their skin frictionless, a sliding, desperate connection. The sound of their bodies meeting was a wet, rhythmic slap that echoed off the tiles. He fucked her with a concentrated intensity, his eyes never leaving hers, as if he was trying to memorize her, or maybe exorcise her.
One of his hands slipped between them, his thumb finding her clit, rubbing tight, frantic circles. The dual sensation—the deep, full penetration and the sharp, bright friction on that sensitive nub—unraveled her fast. Her climax built like a wave, sudden and overwhelming.
“Josh—” His name was a broken plea.
“Come for me,” he growled, his thrusts becoming punishing, erratic. “Let me feel it. Now.”
It broke over her, a crashing, blinding release that clenched around his cock in violent pulses. She cried out, a raw sound swallowed by the steam and the water and his mouth as he kissed her fiercely.
Feeling her convulse around him tore his control away. With three final, deep lunges, he buried himself to the hilt and came. A hot, liquid rush flooded her, joining the water running down their legs. A long, shuddering groan vibrated through his chest and into hers. He held her there, pinned, as he pulsed inside her, his whole body rigid with the force of it.
Slowly, he went limp, his forehead resting against hers. Their breath fogged the air between them. The water began to run cool.
He softened and slipped out of her. He gently lowered her until her feet found the tub floor. Her legs trembled. He reached behind her and shut off the shower.
The sudden silence was deafening. Dripping, they stood in the foggy enclosure, just looking at each other. The adrenaline was gone, washed down the drain with the soap and sweat. What remained felt dangerously fragile.
He reached for a towel, wrapped it around his hips. He handed her one. She dried herself mechanically, the rough cotton abrading her sensitive skin.
He wiped a clear spot on the fogged mirror and stared at his reflection, then at hers standing behind him. “Zoe can never know,” he said, his voice flat. A statement, not a question.
“I know.”
“I mean it, Millie. Not a hint. Not a fucking whisper. She’s my sister. She’s your friend. This…” He gestured between them in the mirror. “This destroys that. It destroys everything.”
“I understand.” She did. The weight of it settled in her stomach, cold and heavy.
He turned, leaning back against the sink. He studied her, his eyes tracing the fresh marks on her hips, the love-bite on her neck. “Why did you do it? Tonight. At her place. That wasn’t just wanting me. That was a declaration of war.”
Millie met his gaze, her green eyes clear and stark. “Because I saw you looking at me all week. And I saw you decide not to do anything about it. I wanted to take the choice away from you.”
A slow, incredulous smile touched his lips. It didn’t reach his eyes. “You crazy, reckless girl.” He pushed off the sink. “Come on. It’s almost dawn.”
They went back to the bedroom. He pulled on his boxers and shorts. She pulled a clean t-shirt over her head, the soft cotton falling to her mid-thigh. They got into the bed, the sheets still damp in places, smelling of sex and now, faintly, of lavender.
He lay on his back. She curled onto her side, facing away from him. After a moment, his arm came around her waist, pulling her back against his chest. His body was a solid wall of heat against her spine.
She expected him to sleep. She waited for his breathing to even out.
Instead, his lips brushed the shell of her ear, his voice a low vibration in the dark. “When I leave here,” he whispered, “this doesn’t exist. We’re polite. We’re distant. We’re nothing.”
Her heart clenched. “And the next time?”
His arm tightened around her. His silence was his answer. It was a promise and a prison sentence, all at once.
Outside, the first faint hints of light greyed the edges of the blinds. The world was waking up. Their secret, still wet and new, curled between them in the rumpled sheets, waiting for the day to try and tear it apart.