Chapter 367: The Shower.

The kiss broke only when she needed air.

I didn’t give her much of it. My mouth found hers again while the water ran over both of us, and this time I took my time — slower, deeper, tongue sliding against hers.

Her back was flat to the tile. She had nowhere to go that wasn’t me or the wall, and both of her hands had found the back of my neck and stayed there, fingers locked in my hair, pulling me harder into the kiss.

Don’t stop.

Don’t you dare stop—

I kissed the corner of her mouth. The line of her jaw. The soft place just under her ear where the water ran in a thin bright stream. The taste of the cheap lather still on her throat when I opened my mouth against it and sucked lightly, feeling the pulse jump under my tongue.

She tipped her head to the side without being asked. A small broken noise went out of her into the spraying water — raw, unguarded.

My hands moved while my mouth did.

Palms down the wet sides of her neck. Over the slope of her shoulders. Along her upper arms and back in again, mapping the ribs under the soft flesh, counting them by touch as the water sheeted off my knuckles. Her skin was fever-hot under the spray.

She was shaking in small discontinuous waves — not cold. The opposite of cold. Every muscle under my hands kept jumping and settling and jumping again.

I kissed the base of her throat. The hollow between her collarbones. The first rise of her breast.

Then the breast itself.

I took my time there. The full weight of it in my hand, lifted slightly so my mouth could close over the nipple, already tight and hard, tasting of soap and water and her. I sucked once, slow and deep, drawing the peak into my mouth, and felt her whole body answer it — hips pushing forward hard, fingers digging into my hair hard enough to sting, a sound that started as my name and broke into nothing halfway through.

Bram—

Fuck. Fuck.

That’s my—

I gave the other breast the same attention. Equal. Thorough. The underside where the water ran warmest, the soft heavy curve of it against my cheek when I turned my face into her, the way the flesh spilled over my palm when I squeezed. I sucked the second nipple until it was as tight as the first, then dragged my tongue across both of them in one slow pass.

She was breathing in short hard pulls.

Please.

Please.

Please.

I went lower.

Mouth on the centre of her chest, following the dark line of the tattoo down between her breasts. The letters under my tongue, raised and precise — a taste of skin, soap, and the clean mineral bite of the water. I traced each one slowly, feeling the shape of the ink against the flat of my tongue.

Down the soft plane of her stomach. Her muscles jumped hard when I kissed just beside the navel, then the navel itself, tongue dipping once into the small hollow while my hands held her hips steady against the tile. The water ran down her stomach and over my mouth and off my chin onto the floor in a continuous warm stream.

She was not steady on her own anymore.

I felt it in the way her weight kept wanting to slide. In the deep tremor running through both thighs under my palms. I kissed the hinge of her hip. The soft inside of it. The water kept running.

"Bram—"

Out loud. Broken in the middle.

"I’ve got you."

Her right hand left my hair and went up, blind, searching along the wet tile above her head until it found the metal fixture — the rail meant for sponges, bolted high into the wall. Her fingers closed on it.

The other hand stayed in my hair like she needed both things at once: something fixed above her, and me.

I went down on my knees on the wet tile.

The water sprayed the back of my head and shoulders in a hard curtain. From here she was all I could see — the soft stomach still jumping with every breath, the dark line of the tattoo ending above the navel, outer lips swollen and already open, the wetness there thicker than water, unmistakable, coating the soft pink inner folds and dripping slowly down the inside of one thigh.

Her legs were braced apart because they had to be. Because if she closed them she would fall.

I put my mouth on her.

Not careful. Not testing. A long slow drag of my tongue through the centre of her, tasting salt and soap and the thick heat that had nothing to do with the shower. I flattened my tongue and dragged it from the tight entrance all the way up through the soft inner flesh to the swollen peak of her clit, then did it again, slower, pressing harder.

Her whole body jerked hard against the tile. The metal rail took a sharp metallic sound as her grip clenched above her head. A noise came out of her that the water only half covered — high, broken, almost a sob.

Oh—

Oh god—

"Oh"

I did it again. Slower. The flat of my tongue, then the point of it, finding the swollen peak of her and working it in a steady rhythm — circling, then pressing, then circling again — while my hands held her thighs apart because they had started trying to close around my head. The soft inner flesh was slick and hot against my mouth.

The last hand left my hair.

It went up, blind, same path as the first, and found the rail. Both arms locked above her head now, body fully stretched, completely open to me.

She was past language. Thoughts arrived in pieces — yes and there and don’t stop and my name, over and over.

Her legs were going.

I felt the exact moment the strength left them. The tremor became a give. Her weight dropped and the only thing that held her were the arms stretched above her head, fingers locked white on the metal. Her hips rolled forward against my mouth in short, helpless thrusts.

I can’t stand—

I can’t—

Bram I’m going to—

Water ran down her stomach and over my face in a continuous warm sheet. Her hips moved against my mouth without her controlling them — grinding, seeking, the soft wet flesh of her pressing harder onto my tongue.

The rail creaked once in the wall under the pull of her full weight. She was lost — completely gone from the practical woman who had turned the taps.

Every pass of my tongue sent a deeper tremor through her. The muscles in her thighs jumped hard under my palms and tried to close. I held them open. The shake moved up through her hips into her stomach; I felt it against my forehead.

She was trying to close around my tongue the way she would have closed around anything that was giving her that much.

Inner muscles pulling, thighs straining against my hands, a broken sound punched out of her on every breath while the water ran down her body and over my face. Her clit was swollen hard under my tongue. Every focused flick made her hips jerk.

I’m going to—

Bram I’m—

Don’t stop don’t stop don’t—

I stopped.

Pulled back just far enough that the contact broke. Her hips pushed forward into nothing and found nothing — a desperate, open roll that met only water.

Don’t—

Don’t you dare—

Come back—

I stayed on my knees on the wet tile and looked up at her.

Short white hair plastered flat to her head. Mouth open, lips swollen from the kissing. Eyes blown dark, almost black. Both arms locked above her head on the rail, body stretched and shaking hard, thighs still trying to close on the empty space I’d left.

Water running down her stomach and over the open, swollen, glistening place my mouth had been, as if the shower could replace what I’d taken away. Her clit was still visibly hard, the soft inner lips parted and wet, the wetness of her thicker than the water, running in a slow clear line down the inside of one thigh.

She stared down at me.

I didn’t move.