Chapter 22: Steam & Surrender
The steam from the shower had begun to fog the small bathroom, blurring the mirror and softening the edges of the world. It carried the clean, familiar scent of Ethan’s soap—lavender and something earthy—a scent that was woven into every memory Mia had of this house, of him. She stood under the spray, letting the hot water pound the pleasant ache from her muscles, the events of the morning playing on a loop behind her closed eyelids.
The shower curtain rattled on its rings. She opened her eyes as Ethan stepped in, the water immediately sluicing over his dark curls, down the plains of his chest. The space was small, meant for one. Their bodies brushed, slick and warm.
“Hey,” she said, a soft smile touching her lips.
“Hey.” He reached for the bar of soap, his knuckles grazing her hip. The casual intimacy of it, the domestic normality after the raw hunger of the bed, sent a different kind of thrill through her.
He worked the soap into a lather in his hands. “Turn around.”
She did, presenting her back to him. His hands came to her shoulders, kneading gently, then slid down her spine, spreading suds over her skin. His touch was purposeful, cleansing, but it ignited every nerve it passed. He washed her arms, her sides, his thumbs tracing the lower curve of her ribs. When his soapy hands slid around to her stomach, pulling her back against him, she felt him hard against the small of her back.
“Your turn,” she whispered, her voice husky in the steam.
She turned to face him, taking the soap from his hands. She mirrored his movements, starting with his shoulders, her fingers working over the firm muscles. She traced the lines of his collarbones, the dip between his pectorals, following the trail of dark hair that led down his abdomen. She took her time, soaping his chest, his arms, watching the water run in rivulets through the hair on his forearms. When her hands slid lower, over his hips, he sucked in a sharp breath.
Her fingers closed around him, slick with soap, and she began to stroke. Slowly at first, then with a firmer, knowing rhythm. His head fell back against the tiles with a soft thud, his eyes closing, lashes dark and spiky with water.
“Mia,” he breathed, his hands coming up to brace against the wall on either side of her head.
She watched him, fascinated by the play of tension across his face, the jump of the muscle in his jaw. She loved this power, this ability to reduce him to a state of pure sensation. She dropped the soap. It bounced once on the tub floor. Using both hands now, she worked him, her thumbs swiping over the head with every upstroke, spreading the pearly bead of moisture that had gathered there.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his hips pushing involuntarily into her grip. “Just like that.”
But she stopped, releasing him. He blinked his eyes open, a look of pure agony on his face. Before he could protest, she pushed him gently back against the tiled wall. It was cool compared to the heat of the water and their skin. She went to her knees on the hard porcelain, the water cascading over her head and shoulders.
The look he gave her was one of stunned reverence. She didn’t hesitate. She took him into her mouth, deep, relishing the choked-off cry that echoed in the small, steamy enclosure. The taste of clean skin and salt filled her senses. She used her tongue, her lips, her hand where her mouth couldn’t reach, until his thighs were trembling and his fingers were tangled in her wet hair, not guiding, just holding on.
“I can’t… you have to stop,” he begged, his voice ragged.
She drew back, rising smoothly. Water ran into her eyes. She wiped it away and saw the raw need blazing in his. Her back hit the opposite wall of the shower with a gasp as he closed the distance between them, his mouth crashing onto hers. The kiss was desperate, water streaming over their joined lips. His hands slid down her slick body, over the curve of her ass, to grip the backs of her thighs.
He lifted her effortlessly. Her legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, the cold tiles a shock against her spine. The feel of him, thick and achingly ready, nudging against her entrance, made her breath hitch in her throat.
“Now,” she pleaded against his mouth, nipping at his lip. “Please, Ethan, now.”
He didn’t need any more encouragement. He aligned himself and pushed into her in one relentless, deep stroke. The cry she let out was lost in the steam and the drumming water. He filled her completely, the stretch exquisite, the angle punishingly perfect. He held her there, pinned between his body and the wall, both of them shuddering with the intensity of the connection.
“Look at me,” he demanded, his forehead pressed to hers.
She forced her eyes open, drowning in the stormy green of his. He began to move, slow, deep thrusts that dragged against every sensitive nerve inside her. The water pounded on his back, dripping from his shoulders onto her breasts. The sound of their bodies meeting, wet and rhythmic, was obscene and beautiful.
“You feel so goddamn good,” he rasped, his pace increasing. “So tight. Clenching around me like that.”
His words were filthy, a dark contrast to the sweet boy she’d known forever. It ignited something wild in her. “Harder,” she urged, her nails digging into his shoulders.
He obeyed, driving into her with a force that stole the air from her lungs. Each thrust jolted her body against the tiles. She hooked her ankles tighter behind his back, taking him deeper, meeting him grind for grind. The friction built, a coiling, screaming heat in her belly.
“I’m close,” she chanted. “So close.”
“Come for me,” he growled, his breath hot in her ear. “Let me feel you come on my cock.”
His words were the final trigger. The orgasm tore through her, a violent, crashing wave that made her vision white out. Her inner muscles clenched around him in frantic pulses, milking his length. The sensation pushed him over. With three more brutal, plunging thrusts, he buried himself to the hilt and shouted, a raw, guttural sound as he came, his body convulsing against hers, pouring himself into her.
They slumped together, a tangled, shuddering mess under the still-pouring water. He was supporting her full weight, his forehead resting on her shoulder, his breathing ragged. Slowly, carefully, he lowered her until her feet found the slippery tub floor. Her legs wobbled. He held her steady, his arms around her, both of them breathing in gasps.
The water began to run cold. He reached behind her and shut it off.
The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by their panting breaths and the drip of water from the showerhead. The steam slowly began to clear. He leaned forward, kissing her softly, a world of unsaid things in the tenderness of it.
A sharp, intrusive buzz shattered the quiet. It came from the bedroom. His phone, vibrating on the nightstand.
The real world, impatient, demanding its due.
Ethan’s eyes snapped open. The post-coital haze vanished, replaced by a sharp, familiar dread. “Shit. That’s the hospital.”
He pushed the curtain aside and stepped out, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around his waist in one hurried motion. He left a trail of wet footprints on the cracked floor tiles.
Mia stood alone in the tub, the cold air raising goosebumps on her skin. The warmth of him was already fading. She heard his low voice from the other room, tense, clipped. “Yes, this is Ethan Bellweather. I’m his son.”
She stepped out, wrapping herself in a towel. She watched him through the doorway. He was perched on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, the phone pressed to his ear. The morning light that had felt so golden now felt harsh, exposing the worry etched on his face, the dark circles under his eyes she hadn’t noticed before.
“Tomorrow? Okay. Yeah, I’ll be there. Thanks.”
He ended the call and sat very still, staring at the discarded condom wrapper on the floor near the bed.
Mia walked in, the damp towel clutched around her. “Ethan?”
He looked up. The conflict in his eyes was a physical thing—the echoes of their passion warring with the cold dread of the phone call. “It’s my dad. They’re moving him for more tests tomorrow. I need to be there first thing.”
She went to him, kneeling on the floor in front of him, placing her hands on his knees. “I’ll come with you.”
He shook his head, a quick, reflexive movement. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to.” She held his gaze. “He’s family.”
The word hung between them, heavy with new and old meanings. He looked at her—really looked at her—his green eyes wide and vulnerable. He brought a hand up, his thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone, wiping away a droplet of water. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.
The momentum of the morning had crashed into a wall. The sanctuary of the shower, of the bed, was gone. What was left was this: the chill of the air, the hard floor under her knees, and the terrifying, wonderful enormity of what they had started, stretching out before them into an uncertain future.