"Gee, wonder why."
His fingers flexed on my hip. "Because I fucked you until your legs stopped working. Want me to fix that?"
I gave him a look that should’ve turned him to stone. "You’re fucked."
"And yet you’re here. Dripping. Bruised. Letting me in."
I stepped back, just to feel the water hit my skin—and so I didn’t have to admit how badly I wanted to hear what he’d say next.
The steam wrapped around us like a second skin as I stepped back, letting the heat sluice down my body and pretending I didn’t hear the way he moved behind me. But I did. I always heard him. The quiet certainty of his steps. The weight of his presence. The tension that followed him into every room and took up all the air.
He stepped into the shower like he belonged there. Like he belonged behind me. And I hated how my skin prickled in response—how my breath caught even before he touched me. I hated that he didn’t speak, didn’t ask, didn’t offer excuses or apologies. He just stood there, close enough that I could feel the ghost of his heat along my spine.
When his hand finally landed on my hip, I flinched—not from fear, but from fury, from want, from the unbearable collision of both. His touch wasn’t rough. That was the worst part. It was careful. Measured. Like he was allowed to be gentle with me. Like he hadn’t already crossed every line.
"Don’t," I snapped, voice sharp, teeth clenched. "Don’t pretend this is care."
He moved anyway, hand gliding across my waist with maddening calm, the other trailing up my back until it settled between my shoulder blades. He pressed—not enough to hurt, just enough to guide. I stumbled forward a step, caught under the scalding spray, his body caging mine without force.
His cock brushed the swell of my ass. Hard. Heavy. Hot. And my traitorous body responded, tightening low, throbbing with unwanted recognition. I hated him. I wanted to scream it into the tiles. But I couldn’t ignore the ache.
"Still pretending this is all performance?" His voice was too close. Too amused. "Your mouth says no, but your body’s dripping for me again."
I shoved at his hand, but it only made him bolder—fingers sliding between my thighs like a knife through silk. I gasped, half outrage, half need, as he stroked through the wetness he’d already felt building.
"Fuck you," I hissed, trying to twist away. "You don’t get to act like this means something."
His hand stilled, then moved again—slower, crueler. "It does. Your body doesn’t lie, Grace. I’ve already stripped you down to the truth."
I reached back blindly, grabbing his wrist and digging my nails in. "That truth? You want it? Fine. I want to rip you apart. I want to bury you in every bruise you gave me. I want you to choke on every lie."
His laugh was low, infuriating. "And still, you’re grinding on my hand."
I hated him. I hated how calm he stayed. I hated that my legs were shaking and that I hadn’t pulled away.
He pressed his chest to my back, the full line of his body locking against mine, every inch of restraint coiled tight like a leash he hadn’t decided to yank—yet.
"Say stop," he said again, voice a growl in my ear. "Tell me to walk out of here. I will."
My lips parted. The word was there. It should’ve been easy.
But instead, I whispered, "I hate you."
His hand slid higher, splayed over my stomach like a brand. "I know."
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stood there with his hand on my stomach, breath steady, skin burning against mine. The water beat down around us, a low hiss that filled the space between heartbeats, between the things I couldn’t say and the ones he wouldn’t ask for. Then slowly—deliberately—he pulled his hand away from my skin. I should’ve felt relief. But instead, I felt cold where his touch had been. Empty.
He reached past me, grabbed the soap, and lathered his hands. His touch returned, not between my thighs this time, but at my shoulder—working slowly, methodically, as if washing me was something sacred. He moved like he was afraid of himself, like he could feel the razor-edge of what we were straddling and didn’t trust what would happen if he pushed. His handssmoothed over my arm, down my back, careful when he reached the bruises. He didn’t speak, didn’t gloat. He just cleaned me, one inch at a time.
I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth ached. “You think this changes anything?”
“No.” His voice was quiet, but there was no softness in it. “I know it doesn’t.”
“Then why are you doing it?” I hissed, fury and confusion and want crashing like surf in my chest. “Why touch me like I’m something to be handled? You’ve already broken me open.”
His hands stilled for a breath. Then resumed—calmer than they had any right to be. “Because I did break you open,” he said, voice low. “And I’m not leaving you in pieces.”
The words hit harder than I wanted them to. I hated him for saying them like they meant something. Hated how my skin leaned into every stroke, how my pulse betrayed every inch of his careful touch. He moved around me, hands sliding over my ribs, my hips, my thighs. He didn’t touch my breasts. Didn’t touch between my legs. He didn’t have to. Every place he didn’t touch burned worse than the places he did.
