The shower steam fogs the glass, but not enough. In the mirror, she sees the vivid imprint of his fingers against her pale skin—a possessive brand from the morning's claiming. He stands behind her, water sluicing down the hard planes of his chest, his gray-blue eyes locked on the reflection of his mark.
His thumb strokes the bruise. A slow, deliberate circle over the darkening print. The gesture is tender. It is also a victory lap.
Emma watches their reflection. Her dark hair is plastered to her neck. His other hand rests on her hip, holding her still against him. The hot water hits her shoulders, runs down her spine, but the heat she feels is the memory of his weight, his rhythm, the soreness deep inside her that pulses in time with her heartbeat.
He doesn’t speak. His silence has a new texture now—sated, heavy, certain. He studies the mark like it’s a signature. His.
She lifts her own hand, her fingers hovering near the bruise. She doesn’t touch it. She just looks. The purple is stark against her fair skin. It doesn’t hurt. It feels like a truth she can see.
Ryan’s gaze flicks up to meet hers in the mirror. His jaw is tight. Something raw moves behind his eyes, something that hasn’t settled yet.
He turns her slowly. The water cascades between them. His hands slide up her back, pulling her flush against the wet heat of his chest. He’s already hard again. The rigid length of him presses into her lower stomach.
“Ryan.”
It’s just his name. A breath lost in the steam.
He lowers his forehead to hers. Water drips from his dark ash-brown hair onto her cheeks. His breath is hot on her mouth. He doesn’t kiss her. He just holds there, his body trembling with a tension that has nothing to do with restraint anymore.
“Tell me to go,” he rasps.
Her hands come up to his chest. She feels the frantic beat of his heart under her palm. She shakes her head, her wet hair catching on his stubble.
His arms tighten. A low sound escapes him, part relief, part surrender. He kisses her then—deep, consuming, a claiming as sure as the bruise on her skin.
His mouth stays on hers, wet and consuming, and she feels the tile cold against her back before she realizes he's moved her. The water pounds against his shoulders, splashing around them, and the rough surface bites into her skin as he presses her against the wall.
He breaks the kiss, breathing hard. His forehead rests against hers. The steam curls between them. His eyes are dark, the gray almost swallowed by the pupil, and his hand slides from her hip down her thigh, gripping, lifting.
She gasps. Her legs wrap around his waist on instinct, her back scraping against the tile as he adjusts his hold. The hard length of him presses against her thigh, against the slick heat between her legs, and she feels the tremor run through his shoulders.
"Emma." Just her name, rough and broken, her name like a question he's afraid to ask. His hand finds her jaw, tilting her face up, forcing her to meet his eyes. Water beads on his lashes, drips from his chin onto her chest.
She doesn't answer with words. She pulls his mouth back to hers, open and desperate, and her fingers tangle in his wet hair. The tile presses cold against her shoulder blades. His chest is hot against hers. The contrast makes her shiver.
His hand slides down her stomach, between her thighs. He finds her ready, slick and aching, and a sound escapes his throat—low, animal, hungry. He doesn't push inside. He holds there, his fingertips pressing, circling, teasing the entrance while his mouth works her neck.
"Tell me," he breathes against her pulse. His thumb traces the bruise on her hip, the one he left hours ago. "Tell me you want this."
She arches into his hand. Her nails dig into his shoulders. The word comes out as a gasp, barely audible over the rush of water. "Yes."
He positions himself, the head of him pressing against her, and then he stops. His whole body is rigid, trembling with the effort of holding still. His eyes find hers, searching, raw, stripped of every wall he's ever built.
"Look at me," he whispers. Not a command this time. A plea.
She holds his gaze. The water drums against his shoulders, splashing her chin, her chest, the space between them where he hovers at her entrance. His eyes are gray and dark and desperate, stripped of every wall he's ever built, and she sees the question there—the one he's too afraid to voice.
She answers by pressing her heels into his lower back. A small shift. A surrender that says everything.
He pushes inside.
Slow. One inch. Two. Her breath leaves her in a shuddering exhale as her body opens to him, the stretch familiar now but no less overwhelming. He fills her completely, and the tile bites into her shoulder blades, and the water streams over her breasts, and she feels every millimeter of him, impossibly deep, impossibly right.
He stops when he's fully seated. His forehead drops to hers. His breath is ragged, uneven, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding still. "Emma." Her name is a prayer, a warning, a plea. His hand slides from her jaw to the back of her neck, cradling her skull against the cold wall.
She wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Her lips brush his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. She tastes salt and water and him.
He begins to move.
Slow, deep thrusts that shift her against the tile with each roll of his hips. His rhythm is unhurried now—not the desperate claiming of the morning, but something else. Something that feels like worship. His hand leaves her neck, slides down her spine, cradles the curve of her ass as he angles her differently, deeper, and a sound escapes her throat she didn't know she could make.
"Look at me." His voice is rough, almost broken. His eyes find hers, and she sees the raw edge of something he's never let her see before. Not control. Not possession. Need. Pure, unguarded need.
She holds his gaze. Her fingers trace the line of his jaw, the stubble rough against her fingertips. The water cascades around them, steam rising in thick curls, and the world narrows to this—his eyes on hers, his body inside hers, the steady rhythm of his breathing matching her own.
His pace quickens, just slightly, and his hand finds her thigh, lifting it higher, opening her more. The new angle sends a jolt through her, and she gasps, her nails digging into his shoulders. He watches her face, every flicker of pleasure, every bitten lip, every flutter of her lashes. He doesn't look away.
His pace shifts. Harder. Faster. The change is sudden, a current that sweeps through his body and into hers. His hand grips her thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and the tile scrapes her back with each thrust. The water pounds against them, sluicing over the tight curve of his shoulders, splashing hot against her chest.
She gasps, her head falling back against the wall. Her fingers find his wet hair, gripping, holding as he drives into her. The rhythm is relentless now, raw and consuming, the sound of skin against skin swallowed by the rush of water.
"Emma." Her name torn from his throat. His hips slam against hers, and she feels the edge building, coiling low in her belly, tightening with every stroke. His hand leaves her thigh, finds her clit, presses hard in circles that match his pace.
A sound escapes her—broken, desperate. Her legs tighten around his waist, pulling him deeper, and she feels the orgasm building, inevitable, a wave gathering force. His forehead presses against hers, his breath ragged, his eyes locked on hers, dark and wild.
"Look at me," he rasps, the words barely audible over the water. "Look at me when you come."
She does. She holds his gaze as the wave crests, as her body clenches around him, as a cry tears from her throat that she can't control. Her vision blurs, her fingers clench in his hair, and she feels him shudder, feels his rhythm falter as he follows her over the edge, his groan lost against her mouth.
He pulses inside her, once, twice, his body rigid against hers. The water streams over them, washing away the heat, the salt, the sweat. His forehead stays pressed to hers, his breath hot and uneven, his whole body trembling with the aftershock.
Slowly, he lowers her leg. His hands find her hips, steadying her as her feet touch the wet floor. She sways, and his arms wrap around her, pulling her against his chest. The water cascades over them, and she feels his heartbeat against her cheek, fast and loud.
His lips find her shoulder. A soft press. Then her neck. Her jaw. His thumb traces the bruise on her hip, a gentle stroke, a quiet claim. She turns her face into his chest, her arms sliding around his waist, and they stand there, tangled and spent, the steam curling around them like a secret.