Chapter 365: The Water’s Going Cold.

My eyes watched her.

I couldn’t tell whether it was the days my body had gone quiet without sex, or whether her body was simply calling me — the weight of her, the open stillness, the way she stood there under the white light and let herself be looked at without flinching. Short white hair plastered already starting to damp at the nape. Heavy breasts rising and falling.

"We don’t have the whole night." She pulled me out of it.

Buckle. Button. Zip — loud in the tiled quiet. I pushed the trousers down, stepped out of them, sent the underwear after them in one motion. My cock came free already hardened. The cold air of the bathroom touched it and changed nothing. It stayed rigid, lifting slightly with every heartbeat.

Melissa’s eyes dropped.

God.

He’s got it.

The flush climbed her throat and spread across the upper slopes of her breasts, colour rising under the pale skin. She didn’t look away. Her gaze stayed locked on the full length of me, on the way it sat heavy and obvious in the open.

I feel like I want to sit on it now.

Just put me against the wall. Please.

She cut her own thought off. A muscle in her jaw moved. Out loud her face stayed almost composed — only the colour in her skin and the way her nipples had tightened further giving her away.

I was thinking the same thing from the other side. Hands full of those heavy tits, the soft weight of them spilling between my fingers. Mouth on her, tongue on the pink nipples, the sound she’d make if I stopped being careful and just took. My cock kicked once against the air, hard enough that I felt it in my stomach, a clear bead of cum already gathering at the slit.

She turned toward the ledge under the shower controls. My eyes tracked the ass — full, pale, the soft undersides shifting with each step — and the clean break of her body at the waist, the way everything above it and below it moved as two different arguments for the same conclusion.

Damn.

I followed.

The soap lay on the ground, green and circular. Hard even from a look — dried out, the kind that would take work before it gave anything back.

Melissa squatted and reached for it as if that had always been the next step. Her thighs opened. Her fingers closed on the dry edge of the bar.

It slipped.

The soap hit the tile with a flat crack and skidded across the wet floor. She made a small sound of irritation — ordinary, practical — and went after it on her knees, the undersides of her thighs clean and white in the hard light, the full weight of her breasts hanging forward as she leaned.

The angle opened her completely.

Outer lips parting under the strain of the squat, the softer pink inner folds already wet and shining, the tight dark centre of her held in the white light for a clear, deliberate second before her hand found the soap again. No water on her yet. That wetness was hers — thick enough to catch the light, coating the soft inner skin.

My cock went rigid to the point of aching, lifting hard against my stomach, a clear bead of precum swelling at the tip and beginning to slide. The full angle of the erection sat out in the open with nothing left to negotiate — thick, veined, the head dark and wet.

She straightened and stood up with the bar in her hand.

Then she saw me. The full hard length of me. The wetness at the head.

Oh.

Look at that.

He’s going to put that in me—

Good.

Why is he still just standing there.

She didn’t ask what. She already knew. She closed the distance for a practical reason: the controls were behind my shoulder.

"Excuse me."

Level. She reached past me for the taps. Her breast dragged across my arm as she leaned — soft, heavy, the nipple dragging a wet line across my skin. Her hip came into the heat of my cock for a second and stayed a fraction longer than the reach required, the soft outer lip of her sex brushing the shaft once, deliberate or not.

The shower head above us coughed, spat brown, then let a clear stream fall. Cold water hit her short white hair first, flattening it to her skull, then her shoulders, then ran down the slopes of her breasts in thin bright lines that caught on her nipples and dripped. She adjusted the temperature without stepping away.

The stream climbed toward hot. Steam lifted off the tile and off her skin and rose into the spray, turning the air thick.

If he puts a hand on me right now I am not stopping him.

I am not stopping him even a little.

Don’t say it. Let him break first.

She brought the soap up into the falling water and worked it between her palms. The bar was old. It took a long time to give her any lather — she kept turning it under the spray, patient, while water sheeted off her short hair and over her chest and down between her legs, running in clear rivulets over the soft outer lips and the wet pink inside, and while my cock stayed hard in the small space she had left me because she had not stepped away after turning the taps.

"I’ll help you," she said. The tone of someone dividing labour.

She stepped fully under the spray with me. The last inch disappeared. Water fell on both of us from above.

Her body sealed to mine from chest to thigh, slick, hot, the full soft weight of her breasts pressing flat against my chest, her stomach against the hard length of my cock, the soft mound of her pussy resting against the base of me.

She reached up and put her soapy hands in my hair and worked the lather through from the front to the nape, fingers firm against my scalp, the motions exactly the motions of washing.

Every shift of her arms dragged her breasts across my chest — nipples hard, sliding wet against my skin. Every small adjustment of her stance stroked the full length of my cock against the soft wet line of her stomach without her hands going anywhere near me. The head of me dragged through the water and the soap and the heat of her skin.

He’s being so careful.

I don’t want careful.

I want you to grab me and fuck me until I can’t stand up.

Bram. Please.

Water ran into my eyes. I didn’t close them. And I didn’t rush — even with her thoughts stripped bare in front of me, I had all the time.

"Tip your head back."

I did. The spray hit my forehead and ran down my face. Her thumbs worked the soap behind my ears, along my neck, down the line of my throat.

Her mouth was close enough to my throat that I felt her breath between the fall of the water — warm, uneven.

If he doesn’t do something I am going to lose my mind.

Give him the soap. Keep it moving.

God, he’s hard. He’s so hard against me—

She rinsed her hands under the spray, took the bar, and put it into my palm. Her fingers closed mine around it once and then she let go and tipped her own head back into the falling water, eyes closed, throat exposed, the stream pattering off her face and chest while she waited for me to return the favour. Water ran in continuous sheets down between her breasts, over the tattoo, over her stomach, and straight between her open thighs.

Touch me.

You could have heard me if it wasn’t this place.

Just touch me.

I looked at the soap in my hand. At the water sheeting down the pale wet slopes of her breasts. At the dark line of the tattoo. At the woman who was here to bathe and whose mind was already on her back on the tile with her legs open.

I put my free hand on her waist.

Not the soap. Her.

Water ran over both of our hands where they met her skin. My fingers spread, feeling the soft give of her, the heat under the water. Her eyes opened. Her thoughts went white for a second — yes — finally — yes — and out loud she only said, very calmly, over the sound of the spray:

"The water’s going to run cold if we take too long."