Pat slipped from the bed on legs that still trembled, every muscle loose and liquid from the relentless pleasure Robby had wrung out of her. Cum still lingered on her tongue, her lips swollen, chin shiny. She didn’t bother with the robe—let it lie crumpled on the carpet like a shed skin. Naked, skin flushed and marked with faint red imprints of his fingers, she padded across the suite toward the bathroom.
The shower was already running when she stepped inside; she must have turned it on autopilot. Hot water cascaded from the wide rain head, steam rising thick and fast, fogging the glass walls. She stepped under the spray, tilting her head back, letting the heat pound against her scalp and sluice down her body in rivulets. Her hands slid over her breasts, down her stomach, between her thighs—gentle, almost reverent—tracing the places he had claimed.
She didn’t hear the door open over the rush of water.
She only felt him.
Robby stepped into the shower fully clothed at first—dark trousers, shirt half-unbuttoned—then stripped in seconds, fabric slapping wetly against tile as he kicked everything aside. His cock was already hard again, thick and heavy, veins pulsing angrily from the sight of her wet, arched under the spray.
He didn’t speak. He simply gripped her hips, spun her around, and bent her forward until her palms slapped against the slick marble wall. Water pounded her back as he kicked her feet wider apart. One massive hand fisted her wet hair, yanking her head back just enough to arch her spine perfectly. The other guided his cock—broad head nudging her soaked entrance once, twice—then he slammed home in one brutal, unbroken thrust.
Pat screamed.
The stretch was immediate, obscene, almost too much. Even after everything—his fingers, his tongue, the way she’d taken him in her mouth—he still felt impossibly huge inside her. Her walls fluttered and clenched around him like they were trying to push him out and pull him deeper at the same time. Every ridge, every vein dragged against her sensitive inner flesh as he withdrew almost to the tip and drove back in—hard, fast, merciless.
“Fuck—Robby—too big—oh god—”
“You can take it,” he growled against her ear, teeth grazing the wet skin of her shoulder. “You were made for it.”
He fucked her like a machine set to destroy—short, punishing strokes that slapped wetly against her ass with every brutal plunge. Water sluiced between them, mixing with the slick sounds of her cunt gripping him, the rhythmic smack of skin on skin echoing off the tiles. Her breasts bounced heavily with each thrust; her nipples scraped against cold marble. She pushed back to meet him, greedy, desperate, chasing the overwhelming fullness that bordered on pain and tipped straight into blinding pleasure.
He lasted maybe two minutes—long enough to make her sob with need, long enough for her to feel every punishing inch branding her insides—then pulled out abruptly.
Before she could whimper at the loss, he spun her around again. His hands clamped under her thighs and lifted her clean off the floor like she weighed nothing. Pat’s legs wrapped instinctively around his waist; her arms looped around his thick neck. He impaled her in one smooth, downward motion—cock spearing deep into her spasming cunt while he pinned her against the shower wall.
Now he fucked her standing, using his massive frame to bounce her on his length like she was weightless. Water pounded his broad back, ran in rivers down the dark hair on his chest, dripped from his beard onto her collarbone. Each upward thrust punched the air from her lungs; each drop drove him deeper than she thought possible. Her clit ground against his pubic bone on every stroke, friction building fast and vicious.
She came first—sudden, violent—nails raking down his shoulders, a high, shattered cry tearing from her throat as her cunt clamped down like a fist and fluttered wildly around him. The spasms dragged him right to the edge.
Robby pulled out at the last second.
He lowered her to her knees in one fluid motion—water still pouring over them both—and fisted his cock with one tattooed hand. Two hard, rapid strokes and he erupted.
Thick, hot ropes of cum lashed across her upturned face—first stripe over her cheek and open mouth, second across her closed eyelids, third painting her lips and chin. She gasped, tongue darting out instinctively to catch what she could, the salty heat of him mixing with shower water. More landed on her breasts, dripping down in pearly trails over her nipples. He kept coming—pulse after pulse—until her face was a beautiful, obscene mess.
When the last shudder left him, he exhaled hard, chest heaving.
Pat looked up at him through wet lashes and streaks of his release. Her eyes were glassy, pupils blown, lips parted in a dazed, blissful smile. Mascara ran in dark rivers down her cheeks; cum clung to her skin in glossy strands. She looked utterly ruined—and completely, radiantly happy.
Robby reached down, cupped her jaw with surprising gentleness, thumb smearing his own cum across her lower lip.
“That,” he rasped, voice wrecked and reverent. “That’s the look I needed. Right there. That’s what the camera’s been waiting for.”
He helped her to her feet, steadying her as her legs wobbled. Water pounded down on them both, washing away the evidence slowly, inexorably.
“Quickly now,” he said, already turning off the shower. “Wash up. We’ve got five minutes before the light changes. Get back in that robe, fix your face just enough to look freshly fucked—and we’re rolling.”
Pat nodded, still floating, still smiling like she’d discovered something sacred.
She stepped under the spray one last time, rinsing his cum from her skin while he toweled off behind her, already moving with purpose.
As she reached for the fresh robe hanging on the hook, she caught her reflection in the fogged mirror—flushed, marked, alive in a way she’d never been before.