Chapter 368: Please.

Melissa looked at me.

Her thighs pressed together once — soft, wet skin sliding against soft, wet skin — then slipped apart again on the slick tile with a quiet, open sound. Both hands stayed high on the rail. Water ran off her elbows, her chin, the tips of her breasts in slow, heavy drops that fell straight to the floor.

"Please."

The word left her mouth the same way it had been leaving her head for the last few minutes — raw, stripped of everything except need.

I didn’t move.

I wanted it to stay. For her. For me.

This was not the woman from the mission room. Not the director. Not Monica’s sister. Colour sat high in her face, bright across her cheekbones and down her throat. Her mouth was still open on the last of the word. Her eyes held mine as if looking away would cost her something she couldn’t afford. Short white hair plastered flat to her skull, a few wet strands stuck to her forehead and the side of her neck.

"Don’t stop." No gap between the thought and the voice now. "Don’t leave me hanging."

My eyes tracked her body like there would not be another chance to look.

A small mole sat just under her left breast — one reddish mark on pale skin, the water sheeting around it without hiding it. Below that, her stomach hollowed and filled with every breath, the muscles still jumping from what my mouth had done. Rivulets followed the dark line of the tattoo down to her navel, then lower across clean bare skin to her pussy.

The outer lips were still swollen from my mouth — full, flushed, parted enough to show the softer pink inner folds, glossy with more than water. Thick, clear wetness coated the soft flesh and gathered at the entrance. A slow, bright trail of her ran down the inside of one thigh, thicker and more opaque than the shower’s runoff, catching the hard white light as it moved.

I reached behind me and turned the tap off.

The spray died in a final cough. A few last drops hit the tile and stopped. Steam hung thick in the white light, turning the air heavy and close. The drip from the shower head measured the quiet — one drop, then another, slow and precise.

Just hold on. Hooo—ld on.

Sophia’s thought — or her voice, I couldn’t separate them in that second — cut across the quiet from somewhere beyond the bathroom wall. I pushed it aside.

Melissa’s legs had found some strength again. She was standing properly now, weight on the balls of her feet, though both hands still held the rail above her head as if she didn’t fully trust the floor. Her thighs trembled once and stilled.

"Please," she said again. The word shook.

I crossed the space. The wet tile was cold under my knees.

My hands went under her ass — full, soft, still slick with water and her own wetness — and lifted. Her arms left the rail at once. Fingers drove hard into my hair.

Then her legs were over my shoulders, heels digging into my back, her pussy against my mouth, hot and open and already slick from everything I had done before I stopped. The full weight of her settled onto my face and my hands. The soft outer lips parted against my mouth.

I opened her with my tongue.

She made a sound the quiet room had nowhere to put — high, broken, almost a sob. I held her weight in my hands and against the wall.

The rest of her shook over my face. Flat of the tongue first, dragging slow and firm through the centre of her, tasting the thick heat of her, then the point of it, parting the soft inner folds and finding the swollen peak of her clit. I sucked it into my mouth, hard and steady, while my tongue worked underneath.

Her fists tightened in my hair hard enough to sting. Her heels dug into my back. When I pressed the tip of my tongue against the tight entrance of her pussy and pushed inside, she clenched around me — a strong pulse, another — her hips trying to work against my mouth without leverage, grinding down onto my tongue in short, desperate rolls. Wetness ran down my chin and onto my chest.

Yes—

There—

Bram—

The words were leaving her mouth now too, broken, wet, half-eaten by steam and breath. Her thighs started to fail against my ears, the strength leaving them in waves.

I stood with her still on my shoulders and lowered us both. Tile took my knees with a cold shock. Tile took her back. Her hair dragged out in wet ropes across the white floor, spreading under her head. She went down without resistance — open arms, open thighs, nothing left in her body that was still performing. Her legs stayed spread wide where I put them, knees bent, the soft inner flesh of her thighs glistening.

"Please." Looking up, eyes dark, mouth open. "Bram. I need you in me. Please."

I knelt between her legs.

Hands around her thighs — fingers sinking into the soft wet skin. One firm pull. Her whole body slid toward me across the wet tile — shoulders, the back of her head, the soft wet sound of skin on ceramic — and a short, punched-out sound left her at the movement.

I spread her knees apart. The head of my cock found her pussy, settled against the open heat of it, the thick, dark tip resting right at the entrance, and stayed there. Her wetness coated me immediately, warm and slick.

She tried to lift onto it — hips rising off the tile, seeking the pressure, the soft outer lips dragging along the underside of the head.

My hands pinned her hips to the floor. Hard. She couldn’t move.

"Please—"

"Shh."

She froze under the pressure. Eyes on mine. The drip from the shower head measuring the silence. The tip of my cock resting against her pussy — hot, slick, not moving — the whole night balanced on that single point of contact while she waited for whatever I would do next.

Her breath came in short, shallow pulls that lifted her breasts. Her thighs trembled hard under my hands. The wetness of her coated the head of me in a clear, continuous sheen, warm and unmistakable, dripping slowly onto the tile between us.