The water hit my shoulders, cool and shocking against skin still slick with sweat and smeared with the reminders of all of our shared ecstasy. Steam rose around us, and I pressed my palms flat against the tiled wall, letting the spray rinse the salt from my breasts, my thighs, the places where he'd marked me.

Brian stepped in behind me, his chest against my back, his hands finding my hips. The water sluiced over his shoulders, dark hair plastered to his forehead, and I felt him hard against the cleft of my ass, not pushing, just there. Present. Wanting.

"Look at you," he murmured, his mouth at my ear.

I turned in his arms, water streaming down my face, and his brown eyes moved over me like he was memorizing every freckle, every curve the water traced. The shower was too small for both of us, our bodies pressed together, and I felt his cock twitch against my belly.

"You're staring," I said.

"I'm worshipping." His hand came up, cupping my jaw, his thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone. "There's a difference."

He kissed me then, slow and deep, the water beating down on us, and the heat of his mouth against the cool of the spray made my knees weak. His tongue found mine, and I tasted myself on him still, that salt-sweet reminder of how thoroughly he'd taken me apart.

My hands slid up his chest, over the wet skin, and I pushed him back against the tile. He let me. His back hit the wall with a soft thud, and he looked down at me, water streaming over his jaw, his cock hard and thick between us.

"Tara—"

"Shut up." I sank to my knees, the water hammering against my back, and took his cock in my hand. It jumped against my palm, slick with water and pre-cum, and I looked up at him through the spray. "I'm not done with you either."

His head fell back against the tile. "Jesus."

I took him in my mouth, and the water ran over my lips, down my chin, mixing with the taste of him. He was thick and heavy on my tongue, and I worked him slow, savoring the way his breath caught, the way his hands found my wet hair and gripped.

"Fuck," he breathed, and I felt him throb against my tongue. "Tara, that's—"

I sucked harder, taking him deeper, my hand working the base while my mouth dragged up his length. The water pounded around us, drowning the sounds I was making, the wet, filthy sounds of me devouring him. His hips bucked, and I let him fuck my mouth, let him set the pace, my eyes watering with the strain and the water and the want.

"I'm close," he gasped, his fingers tightening in my hair. "Baby, I'm gonna—"

I didn't stop. I took him to the root, my nose pressed against his skin, and swallowed around him. He came with a groan that was almost a sob, his cum hot down my throat, and I drank every drop, my eyes locked on his, watching him come apart under my hands.

He pulled me up, water streaming off both of us, and kissed me hard, tasting himself on my tongue. Then he turned off the water and stepped out, grabbing a towel, and I saw the look in his eyes — that dark, hungry look that meant he wasn't done.

He dried me with rough, quick strokes, the towel dragging over my breasts, my hips, between my thighs, and I felt that familiar ache reignite, the deep, sweet pulse that only he could wake. He tossed the towel aside and lifted me, my legs wrapping around his waist, both of us still dripping, leaving a trail of wet footprints across the floor.

He laid me on the bed, the sheets cool against my damp skin, and I watched him stand over me, water beading on his chest, his cock already stirring again. The city lights burned beyond the window, and I knew — with that same bone-deep certainty — that this night wasn't about exhaustion. It was about him taking me apart until there was nothing left but the sound of my own voice saying his name.

He didn't ask. He just moved, settling onto his back in the center of the bed, his cock standing thick and hard against his stomach, his eyes dark with that patient hunger. He reached for me, hands finding my hips, and pulled me up his body—not gentle, not asking. Guiding.

"Come here," he said, his voice low and rough. "I want you on my face."

I straddled his chest, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his shoulders, and the heat of his breath hit my pussy before his mouth did. He looked up at me from between my thighs, his jaw already slick with anticipation, and the sight of him there—broad and calloused and utterly surrendered to me—made my thighs tremble.

"You just gonna look at me?" I asked, breath already coming short.

His hands tightened on my ass, pulling me forward, and his tongue dragged up the length of me in one slow, flat stroke. The sound I made was embarrassingly loud in the quiet room, and I felt the vibration of his chuckle against my flesh before he did it again.

I braced my hands on the headboard, arching over him, and he buried his face in me like a man dying of thirst. His tongue found my clit and circled it, slow and deliberate, and I felt that familiar coil winding tight in my belly, the one he'd been pulling at all night.

"Fuck, Brian—"

He groaned against me, the sound buzzing through my whole body, and his fingers dug into the soft flesh of my hips, holding me steady. I started to move, rolling my hips against his mouth, chasing the pressure, and he let me set the pace—for about three seconds.

Then his tongue flicked harder, faster, and his thumb pressed against my entrance, sliding in alongside his mouth. I cried out, my hips bucking against his face, and he growled—actually growled—and pulled me down harder onto his tongue.

"Ride my face," he said, his voice muffled against my inner thigh, his thumb curling inside me. "Take what you need."

I did. I rode him like I was trying to break him, my knees gripping his head, my hands fisted in the sheets behind me. Every stroke of his tongue sent a shockwave through me, and I was already so close, so fucking close, the edge of that first orgasm looming like a cliff.

"Don't stop," I gasped, and he didn't. His tongue lapped at me like I was the only thing that mattered, his thumb pressing deep inside me, curling against that spot that made my vision blur. "Please, please—"

I came with a broken cry, my thighs clamping around his head, my whole body shuddering as the orgasm ripped through me. He didn't let up—his tongue kept working, lapping through my release, drawing it out until I was shaking and sobbing above him.

His tongue found my clit again, and I sobbed at the overstimulation, my hips jerking away—but his hands held me in place, dark and commanding.

"Did I say you could stop?"

I shook my head, breathless, and he smiled—that slow, dangerous smile—and went back to work. He was relentless, his tongue circling and flicking, his thumb still buried deep inside me, and I felt the second orgasm building before the first had even finished fading.

"Brian—" His name came out as a whimper, and I watched his eyes darken with satisfaction.

"That's it," he murmured against me. "Come on my face again."

I did. I came with a scream that I swallowed against my own wrist, my body convulsing above him, his mouth drinking every drop. My thighs shook so hard I thought they'd give out, and I collapsed forward, my chest heaving, my forehead pressed to the headboard.

But he was already positioning me onto all fours, preparing us for another intense round of doggystyle. His cock pressing against my slick, swollen entrance.

"How many more?" he asked, his voice rough, his hips settling between my thighs. "Until I can't remember my own name."

He sank into me in one slow, endless push, and I felt myself stretch around him, full and aching and so goddamn perfect. "Good," he breathed against my mouth. "Because I'm not even close to being done with you."

My knees sank deeper into the mattress, my spine bowing as he filled me to the hilt. The stretch was a familiar ache, but it hit different from this angle—his cock driving up into me, pressing against that spot that made my toes curl against the sheets.

"Fuck, Brian." My voice came out wrecked, barely a whisper, my fingers fisting the comforter.

His hands found my hips, grip bruising, and he pulled out slow—agonizingly slow—until only the head remained, stretching me open. Then he slammed back in, and I cried out, my forehead dropping to the mattress.

"That's it," he growled, his thumb pressing into the dip of my lower back. "Take it."

He set a rhythm, deep and punishing, his hips slapping against my ass with a wet, filthy sound that echoed off the hotel walls. The city lights burned beyond the window, indifferent witnesses to the way he was splitting me open, and I pushed back to meet him, greedy for it.

"You feel that?" His voice was rough, strained, his fingers digging into my hips hard enough to bruise. "Feel how deep I am?"

I could. God, I could feel him in my throat, in my teeth, in the space behind my eyes. Every thrust shoved the breath out of me, and I was already climbing, that familiar coil winding tight and hot deep inside of me.

His hand slid around my hip, fingers finding my clit, and I sobbed at the contact. He worked me in tight circles while he fucked me, his rhythm never faltering, and I felt myself teetering on the edge.

"Come for me," he commanded, his voice breaking on the last word. "Now, Tara."

I came with a scream swallowed by the pillow, my pussy clenching around him in waves, my whole body shuddering. He kept fucking me through it, his pace never slowing, dragging it out until I was limp and trembling beneath him.

"Good girl," he breathed, pulling out. I whimpered at the loss, empty and aching, but before I could protest, I felt something new—the wet, warm press of his thumb against my asshole.

I froze, my breath catching. He didn't push, just pressed, circling the tight ring of muscle with a slick, teasing pressure that made my thighs tremble.

"Brian—" His name came out as a question, my hips twitching.

"Shh," he murmured, his other hand stroking my spine. "Just feel it."

His thumb pressed a little harder, and I felt the give, the slow, shocking stretch of something I'd never let anyone touch. My fingers clawed at the sheets, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps as he worked me open, his thumb sinking in alongside the pressure of his cock pressing back into me.

The fullness was overwhelming—his cock stretching me from one end, his thumb breaching the other—and I heard myself make a sound I'd never made before, high and desperate and utterly wrecked.

"That's it," he groaned, his voice thick with want. "God, Tara, you're so tight."

He moved again, slow and deep, his thumb pressing in time with his thrusts, and I felt the coil winding again, hotter this time, sharper. My vision blurred, my whole body shaking with the impossible fullness of him.

"I'm gonna—" I couldn't finish the sentence. The orgasm ripped through me like a wave, pulling me under, my whole body clenching so hard I felt him shudder behind me.

He came with a guttural groan, his hips slamming into me one last time, his thumb buried deep as he emptied into me. I felt every pulse of him, hot and thick, and I collapsed onto the mattress, his body following mine, both of us shaking and slick with sweat.

"Tara." His voice was hoarse, his lips pressed to my shoulder blade. "Fuck."

I couldn't speak. Couldn't move. I just lay there, pinned beneath him, his cock still inside me, his thumb still pressed against that place I'd never let anyone touch, and I knew—with a certainty that made my heart pound—that this wasn't the end of anything.