Chapter 2: Under the Waterfall
Rio’s blood was still singing, a low, humiliated thrum under her skin that warred with the aftershocks trembling through her thighs. The taste of herself, salt and musk, was still on her tongue from Agatha’s kiss. She looked up at the woman still straddling her, that infuriating composure like a suit of armor.
“That was lesson one?” Rio heard herself say, the bravado in her voice thinner now, cracked open. “What’s lesson two?”
Agatha’s eyes, dark and knowing, gleamed. She didn’t answer with words. Instead, her hand snapped out, gripping Rio’s wrist with a strength that made the bones grind. She yanked her off the bed.
Rio stumbled, naked and unsteady on her heels, which she’d somehow never kicked off. Agatha dragged her, not toward the door, but across the vast room toward an archway leading into an en suite bathroom. Rio’s protest died in her throat, swallowed by the sheer force of Agatha’s movement.
The bathroom was a cavern of black marble and polished nickel. A lone, dim chandelier cast fractured golden light. The air was thick with steam and the scent of jasmine bath oil, undercut by something darker, more familiar—the scent of them, of sex, clinging to Agatha’s skin.
The centerpiece was a walk-in shower of clear glass, big enough for six. The water was already running, a hot, thunderous cascade that fogged the panes. Agatha slid the door open and the cloud of steam rolled out, warm and damp.
Without ceremony, she pushed Rio inside.
The hot water hit Rio’s skin like a shock, sluicing down her body, washing the sweat and the evidence of Agatha’s mouth from her thighs. She gasped, blinking through the spray. Agatha stepped in after her, the water instantly plastering her dark hair to her skull, turning the sheer black lingerie transparent, clinging to every curve and hollow. She looked like a vengeance goddess carved from marble and shadow.
“Lesson two,” Agatha said, her voice cutting through the water’s roar, “is about patience. And posture.”
She gripped Rio’s shoulders and turned her, pushing her down. Not onto the floor, but onto a wide, marble bench that ran along the side wall. “Sit.”
Rio sat. The marble was heated but still cooler than her skin. The water coursed over her head, down her face. She wiped it from her eyes, looking up as Agatha loomed over her.
Agatha’s fingers trailed down Rio’s throat, over her collarbone, tracing the path the water took. “You come very prettily. Loud. Messy. You lose all that clever control.” Her thumb brushed Rio’s nipple, making it peak instantly under the relentless spray. “I find I want to see you lose it again. But on my terms.”
Rio’s breath hitched. “Your terms seem very… one-sided.”
“They are.” Agatha’s hand slid into Rio’s wet hair, fisting it tightly, not quite pulling, just holding. Possessing. “You’re a guest in my house. A curious little stray who wandered into the wrong room. You don’t make the rules here.”
She leaned down, her mouth close to Rio’s ear. “You take what I give you. And you say thank you.”
Then she bit down on the cord of muscle where Rio’s neck met her shoulder. It wasn’t a love bite. It was a sharp, claiming pain that made Rio cry out and arch against the bench. Agatha soothed the spot with her tongue, then whispered, “Now, lean back. Hold onto the wall.”
Dazed, Rio obeyed, reclining against the wet marble, her hands flattening against the cool surface for support. The water pounded on her stomach, her spread thighs. Agatha knelt on the shower floor between her legs, the hard tile unforgiving under her knees. The look on her face was one of focused intensity, a master examining her work.
Her hands pushed Rio’s thighs wider, a blunt, impersonal movement. She just looked for a moment, watching the water flow over Rio’s most intimate skin. Then she leaned in.
Her tongue was a hot, rough stripe through the soaked, sensitive folds. Rio jolted, her head thumping back against the marble. It was different from before—less exploratory, more direct, more brutal. Agatha ate her like she was starving, like Rio was a meal to be devoured. No slow build, just relentless, wet friction. Her tongue circled Rio’s clit, fast and tight, then plunged deep inside her, fucking her with it.
“Oh, fuck… Agatha, fuck…” Rio babbled, her fingers scrabbling against the slick wall. The dual sensations—the punishing hot water on her belly, the wicked heat of Agatha’s mouth between her legs—were too much, a sensory overload that short-circuited her brain.
Agatha pulled back, breathing hard, her chin glistening. “Tell me what you want.”
“You,” Rio gasped. “Just you. Please.”
“Specifics, lawyer. Use your words.”
“I want your mouth. I want to come on your tongue again. Please.”
Agatha gave a low, approving hum. “Good girl.”
She dove back in. This time, she added her fingers, two of them, sliding into Rio with effortless ease, helped by the water and Rio’s own desperate wetness. She curled them, scissoring them, stretching her open, while her mouth sucked Rio’s clit into a tight, pulsing vacuum of pleasure.
Rio shattered quickly, violently. Her orgasm was a short, sharp detonation, a white-hot wire of bliss that sizzled through her nerves and left her convulsing, her cries echoing off the marble and glass. Agatha didn’t let up, milking her through every last pulse, until Rio was weakly pushing at her head, overstimulated and raw.
Agatha rose, water streaming down her body. The lingerie was a ruined, transparent web. Her eyes were triumphant. She looked down at Rio, who was limp and trembling on the bench, utterly spent.
“Lesson two,” Agatha said, reaching for a bottle of jasmine-scented gel and lathering her hands. “You can be taught.” She began to wash Rio with a strange, clinical thoroughness, running her soapy hands over every inch of her as if cleaning a prized object.
Rio was too boneless to protest, too exposed to care. The afterglow was a fuzzy, vulnerable place. She just watched Agatha’s face, the sharp angles softened slightly by the steam.
Then, a sound pierced the water’s roar. A phone, ringing from the bedroom. Agatha’s head snapped up. She listened. It was a specific ringtone, insistent and recurring.
Agatha’s face changed. The possessive heat drained away, replaced by a cool, calculating sharpness. She turned off the water with a sharp twist.
The sudden silence was deafening. Dripping, she slid the shower door open and stepped out, grabbing a thick black towel and wrapping it around herself with practiced efficiency. She tossed another towel at Rio, hitting her in the chest.
“Get dry,” Agatha said, her voice all business. “Get dressed.”
Rio clutched the towel, confusion cutting through her haze. “What? Why?”
The phone rang again. Agatha didn’t answer her. She walked to the bathroom doorway, her body taut. “That’s Dave. He’s looking for his new graduate. He’s been texting. He’s getting anxious.”
A cold trickle, entirely separate from the shower water, went down Rio’s spine. The real world, with its consequences and its messy relationships, came crashing back into the perfumed, steamy sanctuary. The party. Her sort-of boyfriend.
Agatha glanced back at her, a ghost of that earlier smirk playing on her lips, but it didn’t reach her eyes. They were already distant, already planning the next move. “Lesson three, Rio, is the most important one. It’s about exit strategies. And keeping your pretty mouth shut.”
She left Rio sitting naked on the marble bench, the towel in her hands, the taste of jasmine and sex thick in the air, and the sound of a ringing phone splitting the fragile illusion in two.