Chapter 5: Steam

The steam had already taken the mirror by the time I got Leighton's shirt over his head.

It rolled out of the open shower and fogged the whole long wall above the vanity until the glass was a pale blank.

I backed him into the tile under the rain head, and the water came down on us both, hot and loud.

"Stay there," I said.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Hands on the wall."

He put his palms flat on the wet stone on either side of his hips.

I looked at him for a long time, with the water running down his chest and his silver hair plastered dark to his forehead.

He was already hard, and the head of his cock pointed up at me, dark and flushed and shining.

"You're staring," he said, low.

"You stared at me for four hours. It's my turn."

I put my hands on his chest and kissed my way down it, over his ribs and the hard flat plane of his belly.

He sucked in a breath at each kiss.

I took the soap from the ledge and worked it into a lather between my palms.

I washed his chest first, and his belly, and the long muscles of his thighs, and I felt him tremble.

Then I wrapped my soapy hand around his cock and stroked it, root to head, slow and slick.

He made a noise I had never heard from a man.

"Margo."

"Hands on the wall."

"I'm trying."

I twisted my wrist at the head and watched his abs jump.

I did it again, and again, until his hips began to push into my fist.

The water rinsed the soap away, and what was left under my hand was hot and thick and ready.

I sank to my knees on the shower floor, and the water hit my back and ran down my spine.

Nine years, and Bryce had never once asked me to do this.

I wanted it more than I had wanted anything all week.

I took the base of his cock in my fist and licked the underside from root to tip, slowly, in one long wet stroke.

"Fuck," Leighton said.

His head thumped back against the tile.

I closed my lips around the head and sucked, and he groaned from somewhere deep in his chest.

He was thick and hot in my mouth, salt and clean water and him.

I took him deeper, a little at a time, and my hand followed my mouth, and he shook.

"Margo. Christ, your mouth."

I looked up the length of his body at him.

His dark eyes were fixed on my lips stretched around him.

His fingers curled against the stone.

I took one hand off his hip and reached for the back of his and put it on my head.

"Hold me," I said, around him.

His hand slid into my wet hair and closed.

He didn't push.

He just held, and I moved, bobbing my head slow and hard.

I stroked what I couldn't fit, and the sound I made was obscene.

I loved it.

I loved the weight of him on my tongue and the way his thighs trembled and the noises he was trying not to make.