Almost punishing.
It hits the back of my neck and shoulders in hard, steady sheets, and for a moment I just stand there with both hands braced against the tile and let it.
Let the flight sweat wash off. Let the stale airport air wash off. Let the last month wash off if that is at all possible.
Mark steps in under the spray, already stripped, water catching immediately on tattooed skin, running in dark lines over his chest and stomach.
For a second neither of us moves.
His eyes drag over me with a look that lands somewhere between hunger and disbelief.
As if he still cannot quite believe I am standing in front of him either.
He reaches for me.
One hand sliding to the back of my neck.
The other settling at my stomach.
And then his mouth is on mine.
The kiss is hard.
Not rough exactly.
Just starved.
Four months of held-back words and edited messages and careful distance collapsing in one violent rush.
I make a sound into his mouth that I do not recognise as my own.
My hands find him blindly, shoulders first, then chest, then around to his back because I need more contact than seems physically available.
He is hot and wet and solid under my palms.
Real.
So painfully real.
Mark kisses like he has been restraining himself for far too long.
His tongue slides against mine, his breath mixing with the steam until I cannot tell where the heat is coming from.
My back hits tile.
I barely feel it.
Mark presses in close, one thigh between mine, one hand still cradling the back of my neck as if even now some part of him is making sure I stay.
As if I might disappear if he lets go.
I clutch at his shoulders.
“Fuck,” I breathe against his mouth.
He laughs once.
A broken, low sound.
