"Kent," I breathe, but he's already moving, backing me toward the bathroom with the kind of predatory focus that makes my pulse spike.
"Let me show you," he says, his voice dropping to that low register that makes heat pool between my thighs. "Let me show you exactly how magnificent you are."
Kent’s hands frame my face, his touch both gentle and commanding as he guides me backward, his lips brushing mine in a kiss that’s all heat and promise. My bare feet meet the cool tile of the bathroom floor, the towel still loosely wrapped around me from the shower, clinging to my damp skin. The air feels charged, heavy with the weight of everything we’ve just unraveled about Shaw, but Kent’s presence anchors me, his eyes burning with a reverence that makes my heart pound.
“Let me show you,” he murmurs again, his voice a low growl that sends a shiver through me. “Let me show you exactly how magnificent you are.”
He maneuvers me until my hips press against the bathroom counter, the mirror behind me reflecting our silhouettes in the soft light. The towel slips slightly, and Kent’s hands are there, steadying it, his fingers grazing my shoulders as he tugs it loose, letting it fall to the floor. My skin prickles under his gaze, exposed and vulnerable, but the way he looks at me—like I’m something sacred—makes me feel powerful.
“Look at yourself, Lila,” he says, his voice rough with awe as he turns me to face the mirror. His hands settle on my hips, pulling me back against his chest, his warmth enveloping me.In the reflection, I see my flushed cheeks, my eyes bright with a mix of rage and desire, and Kent behind me, his face a study in adoration, his bare torso still glistening from the shower.
“You see this?” he whispers, his lips brushing my ear, his breath hot against my skin. “This is the woman who’s fought monsters and won. The woman who’s stronger than anyone I’ve ever known.” His hands slide up my sides, fingers tracing the curve of my waist, teasing the underside of my breasts. “And fuck, you’re so beautiful it takes my breath away.”
I try to look away, the intensity of his words almost too much, but he catches my chin gently, guiding my gaze back to the mirror. “No, baby. Watch. See what I see.” His fingers trail down my stomach, slow and deliberate, igniting heat wherever they touch. He cups my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples until they harden, and I gasp, my reflection showing the way my lips part, my body arching into his hands.
“Look at how perfect you are,” he growls, his voice thick with desire. “These tits, so fucking gorgeous, made for my hands.” He squeezes gently, rolling my nipples between his fingers, and I moan, the sound echoing in the quiet bathroom. His eyes stay locked on mine in the mirror, drinking in every reaction, every shudder that crosses my face.
His hands roam lower, one sliding down to tease the sensitive skin just above my core, the other staying on my breast, kneading with a tenderness that contrasts the filth in his words. “You’re a goddamn masterpiece, Delilah,” he says, his voice dropping lower, rougher. “Look at this body, so ready for me, so fucking wet already.” His fingers dip between my thighs, finding me slick and wanting, and he groans, the sound raw and primal. “Fuck, baby, your pussy’s begging for me, isn’t it?”
I whimper, my hands gripping the edge of the counter as he circles my clit with slow, deliberate strokes, his eyes neverleaving mine in the mirror. The sight of us—his hands on me, my body trembling under his touch—is overwhelming, amplifying every sensation. He kisses my neck, sucking gently, leaving a mark that I know will linger, a reminder of this moment. “Look at how you respond to me,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with heat. “So fucking gorgeous when you let go like this.”
His fingers work me with finesse, building the pleasure until I’m panting, my reflection showing the flush spreading across my chest, the way my eyes darken with need. He leans down, kissing my shoulder, my collarbone, his lips worshipping every inch of skin he can reach. “You’re so fucking perfect,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “Every curve, every sound you make—it drives me fucking wild.”
He steps closer, pressing himself against me, and I feel his hardness through his towel, the heat of him making me ache. “Turn around,” he says, his voice a command wrapped in reverence, and I obey, my body thrumming with anticipation. He lifts me onto the counter, spreading my thighs as he steps between them, his hands framing my face as he kisses me deeply, his tongue claiming mine with a hunger that matches my own.
When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with desire, but there’s something tender there, something that makes my chest ache. “I’m going to fuck you now, Lila,” he says, his voice low and filthy, sending a fresh wave of heat through me. “And you’re going to watch every second of it. You’re going to see how fucking stunning you are when you come for me.”
He tugs his towel loose, letting it drop, and positions himself between my legs, his cock hard and ready. He teases me first, dragging the tip through my wetness, making me whimper as he watches my face in the mirror.
“Look at you,” he growls, his voice thick with lust. “So fucking wet for my cock, so ready to take me. You’re perfect, Lila, every fucking inch of you.”
He enters me slowly, inch by inch, his hands gripping my hips as he fills me, and I gasp, my eyes locked on our reflection. The sight of us together—his body pressed against mine, his hands possessive on my skin, my face flushed with pleasure—is almost too much, making every thrust feel more intense. “Watch,” he commands, his voice rough as he begins to move, slow and deep, each thrust sending waves of pleasure through me. “Look at how beautiful you are when you take my cock. Look at how your pussy grips me, like it was fucking made for me.”
His dirty talk is relentless, each word stoking the fire inside me, and I can’t look away from the mirror, can’t stop watching the way my body responds to him, the way my breasts bounce with each thrust, the way my lips part with every moan. His hands roam, one sliding up to cup my breast, squeezing as he thrusts harder, the other gripping my thigh, holding me open for him.
“You’re so fucking tight,” he groans, his eyes flicking between my face and our joined bodies in the mirror. “So perfect, Lila. Look at how you take me, how you love every fucking inch of my cock. You’re a goddamn goddess.” He leans in, kissing my lips hard, his tongue claiming me as his hips drive deeper, and I moan into his mouth, my hands clutching his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.
“Touch yourself,” he orders, his voice a low growl against my lips. “Show me how you make yourself feel good, baby.” I slide a hand between us, my fingers finding my clit, and he groans, watching me in the mirror as I circle myself, the pleasure building to a fever pitch. “Fuck, that’s it,” he says, his voice raw.“Look at you, touching that pretty pussy while I fuck you. You’re so fucking gorgeous, Lila.”
The combination of his words, his cock filling me, my own fingers working my clit—it’s too much, and I shatter, my orgasm crashing through me as I cry out, my reflection showing the raw ecstasy on my face, my body trembling under his hands. He doesn’t stop, fucking me through it, his eyes locked on mine in the mirror, drinking in every moment of my pleasure.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice thick with awe. “So fucking beautiful. My perfect, magnificent Lila.” He follows me over the edge moments later, his groan rough and primal as he buries himself deep, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to leave marks.
We stay like that, panting, our bodies pressed together, our reflections showing two people utterly lost in each other. He kisses me softly now, his lips gentle against mine, then trailing to my forehead, my cheeks, as if sealing the moment with reverence.
“You’re everything,” he whispers, his voice raw with emotion, and I feel tears prick my eyes, not from sadness but from the overwhelming connection between us.
We stay there, wrapped in each other, the mirror reflecting our tangled limbs, our flushed skin, the undeniable truth of what we are to each other. For now, the world outside—Shaw, the murders, the manipulation—fades away, and it’s just us, partners in every sense, reclaiming each other in the face of everything trying to tear us apart.
***
I'm drowning in post-coital bliss on my living room couch, Kent's arms wrapped around me like anchor lines keeping me tethered to reality. My head rests on his chest, listening to his heartbeat gradually slow from the frantic rhythm it held twenty minutes ago when we were pressed against the bathroom counter, lost in each other with desperate intensity.
The soft cotton of his T-shirt smells like our shower gel and something uniquely him—cedar and clean sweat and that indefinable scent that makes my brain shut off and my body respond before conscious thought kicks in. His fingers trace lazy patterns along my spine, each touch sending aftershocks through nerve endings still sensitive from our bathroom encounter.
"We should probably get dressed," I murmur against his chest, but I make no effort to move. The apartment is warm, the late afternoon sunlight filtering through my windows creates geometric patterns across our tangled limbs, and for the first time in days, my mind feels quiet.
"Should we?" Kent's voice carries amusement and something deeper—contentment, maybe. His hand moves to cup the back of my head, fingers threading through hair that's still damp from our shower. "I like you exactly like this."
