The water is cold at first, a shocking slap against her overheated skin. Sam flinches, her back pressed to the rough concrete wall of the tiny shower stall. Soap’s body is a solid cage in front of her, his arms braced on either side of her head, his gaze unblinking. The spray hits his shoulders and runs in rivulets down the hard planes of his chest, over the fresh white dressing taped to his side, and finally between her thighs.
She watches it happen. The clear water turns milky for a second as it sluices over her inner thighs, carrying his spend away in a pale, vanishing trail down the drain between their feet. The physical proof of his claim is gone, washed clean. But the feeling it leaves behind is a hollow, aching emptiness. A void where he was. She feels open. Used. Cleaned out.
Soap doesn’t move. He just watches her face, his blue eyes sharp even in the steam beginning to fog the cramped space. The water plasters his dark blond hair to his skull, drips from his stubbled jaw. He’s waiting.
“It’s gone,” Sam whispers. Her voice is raw, barely audible over the drumming water.
“Aye.” His brogue is low, a rumble under the spray. “The water can take that. Doesn’t change what’s underneath.”
Her breath hitches. The emptiness inside her clenches, a phantom pulse. It’s not shame that floods her now. It’s worse. It’s want. A terrifying, bottomless hunger that his brutal possession didn’t satisfy—it unlocked. She looks up at him, water stinging her eyes, her split lip throbbing. The professional armor is in pieces at her feet. There’s nothing left to hide behind.
“I felt it,” she says, the words torn out of her. “When you… when you pulled out. I felt empty. And I…”
She stops. Swallows. The confession is a live wire in her throat.
Soap’s gaze doesn’t waver. “You what, Sam?”
“I hated it.” The admission is a gasp. “I hated that you were gone. I wanted… I wanted you back. Inside. I wanted to feel… full. Of you. Even after.”
There it is. The terrifying truth. It hangs in the steam between them, more naked than their bodies.
Soap’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes deepens, darkens. A slow, knowing heat. He shifts one hand from the wall, brings it to her face. His thumb strokes over her wet cheekbone, wiping away water that isn’t tears. Not yet.
“That’s not inexperience, lass,” he says, his voice rough. “That’s something else entirely.”
She nods, a frantic little movement. “It’s messed up.”
“It’s honest.” His thumb traces her split lip, a feather-light touch that makes her shudder. “Your body knows what it wants. Even if your head’s still catching up.”
He leans in, his mouth close to her ear. The heat of his breath is a shock against the cool water. “You want to be filled? Claimed? Owned?”
A whimper escapes her. She nods again, helpless.
“Then ask.”
The word is a command, soft and absolute. It’s not a tease. It’s a test. The water pours over them, erasing everything but this. Her hands come up, flat against his slick chest. She can feel the strong, steady beat of his heart under her palm. The proof that he’s real. That this is real.
She opens her mouth. The words are there, coiled in the hollow, aching place inside her. “Soap.”
“Aye.”
“Please.” It’s a ragged whisper, lost in the spray. “I need… I need you. Back inside me. Now.”
Soap doesn't hesitate. His hands slide from the wall to her hips, his grip firm and sure. He lifts her in one smooth motion, her back scraping against the rough concrete as her feet leave the wet floor of the stall.
Sam gasps, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. The movement pulls at the fresh wound on his side, a sharp twinge he ignores. Her arms lock around his neck, her fingers tangling in the wet hair at his nape.
He holds her there, pinned between his body and the wall, the cold spray hitting her shoulders and cascading over them both. His cock, hard and heavy against his stomach, presses into the wet heat of her. Not inside. Just there. A promise.
“Look at me,” he says, his voice a low command cut through with strain.
Her green eyes find his, wide and dark with need. Water beads on her lashes. Her split lip is swollen, a dark contrast to her pale skin.
He adjusts his hold, one arm banded under her ass, the other braced against the wall beside her head. He shifts his hips, the blunt head of his cock nudging against her entrance. She’s slick, open, ready. The water makes everything slippery, but he can feel the heat of her, a furnace against him.
He doesn’t push. Not yet. He lets her feel the pressure, the almost. Lets her feel the empty space he’s about to fill.
“This what you asked for?” His brogue is rough, his breath hot against her ear.
She nods, frantic, her hips making a small, desperate circle against him. A silent plea.
“Say it again.”
“Please,” she whimpers, the word breaking on a gasp as he presses forward, just an inch. A stretching, burning fullness that starts to ease the hollow ache. “Soap, please. I need you inside. I need to feel you.”
He drives home.
It’s not slow. It’s a single, deep, claiming thrust that seats him fully inside her, hilt-deep, and slams her back against the concrete. The air punches from her lungs in a sharp cry.
He stops, buried in her heat, his own body shuddering with the effort of holding still. She’s tight, clenching around him in rhythmic pulses, her inner muscles fluttering in shocked welcome. The water runs over their joined bodies, a futile attempt to cool the fire.
“Christ,” he grits out, his forehead dropping to her shoulder. The feeling is staggering. The slick, hot clasp of her. The way her body yields and grips him at once. It’s more intense than the first time, raw and immediate, with no preamble.
Sam’s head falls back against the wall with a soft thud. Her eyes are closed, her mouth open on a silent, overwhelmed gasp. Full. She is so full. The emptiness is gone, obliterated by the solid, stretching reality of him. It’s a relief so profound it borders on pain.
He begins to move.
A slow, deliberate withdrawal, dragging every inch against her sensitive walls until just the tip remains. Then a hard, deep surge back in. The rhythm is punishing and perfect. The slap of wet skin, the ragged sound of their breathing, the hiss of the shower—it’s a brutal symphony.
Each thrust jars her against the unyielding wall, a counterpoint to the devastating pleasure coiling deep in her belly. Her nails dig into the hard muscle of his shoulders, her thighs tightening around him. She can feel the strain in his body, the corded strength in his arms and back as he holds her up and fucks her into the concrete.
“That’s it,” he rasps against her throat, his lips finding the frantic pulse there. “Take it. Take all of it. It’s yours.”
His words unravel her. They’re not a claim of ownership now, but a gift. A permission. The pleasure builds, a white-hot pressure that has nothing to do with skill or experience and everything to do with this man, this joining, this desperate, trusting hunger.
She feels her climax gathering, a tidal wave rising from the depths he’s filling. It’s different this time—deeper, slower, more inevitable. A structural failure, as he’d promised. A sob builds in her chest, a raw, helpless sound she can’t swallow.
“I can’t—” she chokes out, her body beginning to tremble violently around him.
“You can.” His thrusts become shorter, harder, focused. “Let go, Sam. I’ve got you.”
The wave breaks.
It’s not a scream. It’s a shattered, guttural cry that tears from her throat as her body convulses around his. The orgasm rips through her, a series of relentless, pulsing contractions that milk his cock deep inside her. She shakes apart in his arms, her vision whiting out, every thought scoured clean by pure sensation.
Soap groans, a deep, ragged sound of surrender. Her climax triggers his own. He buries his face in the curve of her neck and comes, his hips jerking erratically as he spills into her, filling the emptiness with his heat, his claim, all over again.
He holds her through the aftershocks, both of them trembling, pinned together by gravity and pleasure and the relentless pour of the water. His softening cock is still inside her, a tender, intimate connection. His breath is hot and ragged against her skin.
Slowly, carefully, he lowers her until her feet find the slick floor. Her legs are weak, buckling. He keeps his arms around her, holding her upright against him as she sags, spent and boneless. The water begins to run warm.
He doesn’t speak. He just holds her, his hand cradling the back of her head, his thumb stroking the wet hair at her temple. The knowing in his eyes is a quiet, permanent thing. The confession is in the steam. The answer is in the way she clings to him, her face hidden against his chest, her body still softly pulsing around the fading echo of him inside her.