Chapter 9: The Photo

I woke to gray light and the smell of coffee, and the shower running behind the back room wall.

My father had put in a stall shower for the days he came home too filthy for the house.

It had a drain, a cracked tile and one good showerhead.

I pulled on Jesse's work shirt and stood in the doorway with my arms crossed.

He had his back to me, soap running down the long muscle of it, and both palms against the tile.

"You're staring," he said, without turning.

"I'm looking."

"That's the same thing."

"Then come here."

He turned off the water and looked at me over his shoulder, wet and bare and grinning.

I dropped the shirt on the floor.

I stepped in, and he caught me by the waist and backed me up against the cold tile, and I gasped against his mouth.

The water came back on, hot.

"Morning," he said.

"Morning."

His hand slid down my belly and between my legs, and I was slick for him before his fingers got there.

He rubbed my clit in slow, firm circles while his mouth moved down my throat.

"You're still sore," he said.

"Not enough to stop."

I took him in my fist and stroked him until he was fully hard, heavy against my palm.

He lifted my leg over his hip and pushed up into me in one slow thrust, and I felt every thick inch of his cock fill me.

I cried out, and the sound bounced off the tile.