“Yeah,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of my jaw, the damp skin beneath my ear. “That about covers it.”
His mouth moves lower.
Neck.
Throat.
Back to my mouth again.
Every kiss feels half relief, half disbelief.
I slide my hands down his sides, feel the flex of muscle, the slick heat of water over skin, and when our hips meet the jolt of want that goes through me is almost embarrassing in its force.
Mark feels it too.
His forehead drops briefly to mine.
We are both breathing too hard already.
“I missed this,” I says voice rough.
Not sex.
Not kissing.
This.
The whole unbearable, impossible thing of him being close enough to touch.
He kisses me again before I can say anything else, and this one is slower, deeper, somehow more dangerous than the frantic first collision.
His hand slides between us.
I gasp.
My head tipping back against the tile.
The water beats over both of us, steam thick around our bodies, everything reduced to heat and skin and Mark’s mouth at my throat while his hand strokes my cock with devastating certainty.
There is nothing elegant about the sound I make.
Nothing composed left in me at all.
Months of distance have stripped me down to nerve endings.
“Mark,” I say, and it comes out half plea.
He answers by catching mymouth again.
By swallowing every broken breath.
By holding me like he intends to make up for every mile in one morning.
Pleasure builds too fast.
Too sharp.
My fingers dig into his shoulders.
