“Lilly.”
“Again,” she demanded.
“Lil lee.” The syllables tasted like something I’d been rationing.
She tipped her head back, lips parting, a tremor moving through her that I felt in my own bones.
I stayed with her, my tongue relentless against her swollen nub, letting her ride the edge she’d chased me to. When shebroke—quiet, tight, a gasp swallowed by steam—I held her there, my fingers buried deep inside her, told her she was fine, told her she was with me.
“Yeah,” she breathed, smiling around it. “With you.”
As I stood, her forehead touched my shoulder. The shower sang around us. I closed my eyes for a beat and let the sound drown out the rest of the world.
“Turn,” I murmured after a moment. “Hands here.” I pointed.
She obeyed, palms flattening to the tile, cheek turned so I could see her smile flicker and settle. I followed, positioning myself behind her, the head of my cock pressing against her slick entrance.
I pushed in slowly, careful as a man on black ice, finding that punishing balance between what I wanted and what I’d let myself take. Heat built, relentless. Control answered, just as relentlessly.
“Look at me,” I said without breaking my rhythm, catching her gaze over her shoulder. “Stay with me.”
“Harder,” she whispered, pressing her hips against mine.
When the edge hit me—hard, fast, shaking loose more than muscle—I braced a forearm to the wall beside her head, bowed into the spray.
Moaning, I pulled out and finished where the water could carry it away. My breath sawed out. The glass blurred. The world narrowed to a few square feet of heat and the woman leaning into me, satisfied and soft.
For a long moment, neither of us said anything. The shower did the talking—thrum and hiss, the tiny clicks of hot expanding metal, the quiet storm.
She reached back blindly and found my hand, lacing her fingers through mine. “Welcome home,” she murmured, the same words as before, but gentler now.
I pressed a kiss to her damp knuckles. “You break into all the homes you welcome people to?”
“Only the ones worth the trouble.” She turned, swaying a little. I steadied her with both hands at her waist. “Yours was unlocked.”
“Still a choice,” I said.
“Uh-huh.” That mischievous curve slid back onto her mouth. “Good one, too.”
I shut off the water. The sudden quiet felt like a held breath. Steam spilled out when I opened the glass, curling into the cooler air. I reached for a towel, wrapped it around her first—always her first—then another for myself. She shivered once, like the heat had let go reluctantly.
“Head up,” I said, toweling her hair. She made an appreciative sound, eyes drifting heavy-lidded. The faint scent of her perfume—amber-warm beneath the clean soap—knotted with something that would haunt my pillow later.
“You’re very gentle for a bossy man,” she teased, voice gone drowsy.
“Don’t tell anyone.”
She smiled without opening her eyes. “Would ruin your reputation.”
I slid an arm under her knees and another at her back. “Come on, trouble.”
She looped her arms around my neck, trusting as a sleep-drunk cat, and let her head fall to my shoulder. “I like it when you call me that.”
“What, trouble?”
“Well, yes,” she whispered, so softly I almost missed it.
The word landed low in my chest, sharper than I was ready for, brushing against scars I kept hidden. I swallowed it down—not here, not now—and carried her from the bathroom. I set her on the cool sheets in my room and drew the covers up. Shesighed, curling into my pillow like its scent was enough to hold her.
