"You don't have to?—"
"I want to," I tell her, my hands sliding up the backs of her legs. "Let me taste you again."
Her answer is to widen her stance slightly, one hand bracing against the shower wall, the other tangling in my wet hair. I take her invitation eagerly, my tongue finding her center with renewed purpose.
The shower adds a new dimension to the experience—the constant flow of water washing away and replenishing her arousal, the steam intensifying her scent. I lose myself in the task, cataloging every gasp and moan, learning what makes her thighs tremble and her grip tighten in my hair.
When she comes, it's with a sharp cry that echoes off the tiled walls, her body shuddering against my mouth. I steady her with my hands on her hips, guiding her through the aftershocks until she gently pushes me away, oversensitive.
She pulls me to my feet, her eyes dark with satisfaction and renewed desire. "Your turn," she says, reaching between us to wrap her hand around my length.
I groan, my forehead dropping to her shoulder as she strokes me. Her touch is perfect—firm yet gentle, finding a rhythm that has me teetering on the edge embarrassingly quickly.
"Lena," I warn, feeling the familiar tightening at the base of my spine.
"It's okay," she murmurs, speeding her movements, eyes glued to my cock. "Let go for me."
Her permission is all I need. I come, muffling my groanagainst her neck, my release spurting over her hand and stomach before being carried away by the shower spray. We stand wrapped in each other for a moment, my breathing harsh in my ears.
When I regain my senses, I reach for the body wash, gently re-cleaning us both. There's something intensely intimate about this—more so, somehow, than the sex itself. Lena seems to feel it too, her expression soft and a little vulnerable as I run soapy hands over her skin.
"I like taking care of you," I admit, surprising myself with the confession.
Her smile is radiant. "I like it too."
After that, we finish our shower quickly, and the hot water begins to run cool. As we dry off, the easy silence returns, broken only by Gordie's occasional snuffling from the living room.
I pull on clean sweatpants while Lena hesitates by the pile of yesterday's clothes.
"You can borrow something of mine," I offer. “I like looking at you in my things.”
She nods, and I dig through my dresser for a T-shirt and shorts. While she dresses, I head to the kitchen, determined to make her a breakfast worthy of the night we shared.
By the time she joins me, I've got coffee brewing and eggs sizzling on the stove. Her hair is damp around her shoulders, my Fury t-shirt hanging loose on her frame, the shorts revealing her lush thighs. She's never looked more beautiful.
“Cheesy eggs?” she asks, wrapping her arms around me from behind as I stand at the stove.
"With butter,” I confirm, flipping one with a practiced motion. "And I have ketchup.”
"Fancy," she teases, pressing a kiss to my shoulder before moving to pour coffee for us both.
We move around the kitchen in that same easy synchronicity, setting the table, feeding Gordie, and preparingbreakfast together like we've done a hundred times before. I can't remember the last time I felt this comfortable with someone—certainly never with Adam, who always maintained a certain careful distance even at his most affectionate.
Over breakfast, we talk about nothing important—Gunnar and Emerson's wedding, whether anyone noticed our early departure, what we might do with the rest of our Sunday. We carefully avoid labeling whatever this is between us, though the "summer fling" designation feels increasingly inadequate for the warmth spreading through my chest whenever Lena laughs.
Gordie eventually joins us at the table, sitting hopefully at Lena's feet. She slips him a tiny piece of plain egg, earning a disapproving look from me.
"What? He gave me the eyes," she defends. "I'm only human."
"He's a master manipulator," I tell her seriously. "Don't fall for it."
"Too late," she says, smiling down at my dog with such affection that my heart constricts.
The doorbell rings, disrupting the moment. I glance at the clock—barely past ten on a Sunday morning. Who the hell is visiting now?
"I'll get it," I sigh, pushing back from the table.
When I open the door, Brian stands on my doorstep, impeccably dressed despite the hour, a tablet in one hand and coffee in the other. His expression is grim.
