“Fuck, Willow…” His voice is shredded silk. My name in his mouth tastes like reverence and ruin. “You feel—so fucking good.”
I press a kiss to the crown, just a whisper of contact—and his hips shift, the control in him unraveling thread by thread. Islide my tongue along the underside, tracing the thick vein, and he groans, one hand flying out to brace against the wall.
When I take him deeper—inch by inch—his knees almost buckle.
“Jesus Christ.” His fingers tangle in my wet hair. Not pulling. Not forcing. Just anchoring. “That mouth…”
I hollow my cheeks and suck him deep, loving the way he twitches, the rough rasp of his praise above me.
“Look at you.” His voice is hoarse, awed. “On your knees for me. So fucking beautiful.”
The water keeps falling, heat curling through the shower like fog, but it’s his approval that scorches me.
His other hand joins the first, cradling my skull. I let him guide me, surrendering to the slow rhythm he sets. He doesn’t thrust. He claims. Deep strokes, deeper moans, his cock thick against my tongue.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says, barely holding on. “I’ll stop. I’ll always stop for you.”
I dig my nails into his thighs in answer—don’t you dare stop.
And he doesn’t.
He fucks my mouth slow and possessive, hips flexing just enough to feed me more, groaning like the sound’s ripped from his core.
When I reach up and roll his balls in my palm, he chokes on a curse and pulls out fast, gripping the base of his cock to keep from coming.
His chest heaves. His whole body shakes.
“You keep that up,” he growls, “and this ends with me painting your throat and whispering apologies.”
I grin up at him, lips swollen and slick. “So don’t keep me waiting.”
He stares at me like I’ve gutted him. “Holy fuck.”
Then he grabs my arm and yanks me upright, his mouth crashing down on mine in a bruising, punishing kiss.
I taste him. He tastes me. And everything else—fear, history, doubt—burns to ash.
He spins me, crowding me back against the tile wall. One knee shoves between mine, spreading my legs. His hand slides down, fingers finding how wet I am, how ready.
He growls, the sound primal. Then he’s inside me—one hard, perfect thrust that stretches me to the edge of pain and rips a cry from my throat.
He doesn’t give me time to adjust. He fucks me hard.
Against the wall. In the steam. With his name on my lips and his cock driving into me like he owns my soul.
I claw at his shoulders. He bites my throat. We don’t make love. We burn. His hand snakes between us, fingers rubbing my clit just right, just rough enough to shove me over the edge.
I come screaming his name, clenched tight around him, writhing between him and the wall as the orgasm rips through me.
He groans, thrusts once more, twice—and explodes inside me, biting my shoulder, emptying himself with a violence that makes the world tilt.
For a long moment, we don’t move. Just breathe.
Steam curls around us. My legs tremble. He holds me like I might disappear.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers, forehead pressed to mine. “I’ll always have you.”
I believe him.
