When I turn, he’s already close, steel eyes locked like he’s afraid to miss my reaction.
“I want to shower and crash…” He looks away, then his eyes meet mine again. “Withyou,” he says, and it hits like a declaration that I feel in my chest.
I thought we were done for the night. That his distant tone was deliberate. That maybe whatever shifted at dinner is where our bubble begins to burst. But now, the space between us doesn’t feel so wide.
His hands rise to my face, tender, as though he needs me tofeelwhat words alone can’t say.
“Us.Together.” He brushes a kiss to my forehead. “I’ll lay them down,” he says softly. “You go start the shower. I’ll be right there.”
I nod, heart pounding, handing off the kittens, then turning toward the stairs, every step suddenly weightless, as if I’m drifting.
In the bathroom, I peel off my sundress, then my swimsuit, each piece a layer of tension falling away.
Steam curls around me as the water starts. I step in slowly, letting heat ease the pressure still coiled in my shoulders.
Knox steps in without a word, his gaze locking with mine, water beading across his shoulders.
One step closes the space.
We reach for the body wash simultaneously, fingers grazing before he pumps a few drops into my palm.
Lather builds between our palms as we wash each other—slow strokes over shoulders, down arms, across backs and chests—palms rediscovering skin we already know by heart.
Knox smooths his hand along my spine; I trace the line of his collarbone.
Fingers slide through hair, mine first, then his, the scent of lavender shampoo rising in the steam.
My hands rest against his chest, attuned to the steady beat beneath my palms, before he tilts his head and kisses me, slow, steady, unhurried.
Our lips part.
He leans in, rests his forehead to mine, breath shaky, like he’s letting go of something heavy.
His fingers trail down my back, and I shut my eyes, pulled under the gravity of this moment.
This is what intimacy feels like when longing becomes safety, when being wanted doesn’t feel risky.
Once the water cools, we step out and towel off, steam fogging the room.
Droplets trace the slick, sculpted ridges of his chest, down his abs, lower still, each one a path my eyes follow hungrily.
He’s already hard—thick, aching—unmistakably.
And when his dark, hooded eyes meet mine, there’s no pretense. Just unspoken need, his and mine.
I let my towel fall.
He steps forward, slow, and I drop to my knees, his breath hitching sharp and ragged.
I slide my hands along his thighs, then up, methodically, until my fingers curl around him, his groan cutting through the quiet like a prayer.
Hot and heavy in my hand, he pulses with anticipation, his head tipped back, one hand gripping the counter like he’s seconds away from coming undone.
“Christ—you’re gonna ruin me.”
I’ve never done this with him. Never taken him in my mouth. Never tasted how he falls apart. Every time we got close, urgency took over, hands everywhere, mouths frantic, bodies colliding. But this man’s always been so generous with me. Tongue. Fingers. Patience. Devouring me like I’m his last meal. Tonight, I’m giving that back. Tonight, it’s my turn to feast.
I press a kiss to his tip, then another, flicking my tongue along the shaft before taking him deeper.
