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I laugh, but it turns into a groan. “I need to shower. Reset. Or I’ll get nothing done.”
“A shower sounds like a fantastic idea,” he says, far too innocently.
“That wasn’t an invitation.”
“Wasn’t it?”
Before I can stop him, he’s standing, and suddenly I’m weightless as he lifts me into his arms.
“Carter—”
“Shh,” he murmurs. “I’m helping. You clearly can’t walk.”
He carries me into the bathroom and sets me on the marble bench before stripping off his T-shirt I threw on when I woke up. His hands are slow, reverent, like he’s unwrapping a gift. Then I reach for the waistband of his joggers and slide them down, watching his cock spring free, already rock hard.
We step into the shower together. The water is hot, pouring over us in a steady rhythm, washing away the evidence of last night while promising more.
He presses me gently against the glass, body close but not crowding, and grabs a sponge. His touch is… different. Slower. More intimate.
He lathers soap on a sponge , then runs the sponge over my shoulders, down my arms, across my chest, teasing my nipples until I gasp and press my thighs together on instinct.
“Relax,” he whispers. “Let me take care of you.”
Against my better judgment… I do.
His hands are everywhere. Gentle over the bruised places, firm when I whimper for more. He kisses me under the spray—wet, deep, filthy kisses that have me melting into the tile. Then he’s on his knees, lips on my stomach, inching lower with every breath until he’s between my thighs and I’m clutching the back of his head like the water can’t drown me fast enough to stop what he’s doing.
It’s slow. Torturous. Worship.
By the time he stands again, I’m trembling, legs weak all over again.
He braces me against the glass and slides into me with a groan so deep it vibrates through my spine. He moves slowly, filling me with lazy strokes that drag along every nerve ending like velvet and sin. My moans bounce off the walls. The storm howls louder outside, and I swear the thunder answers us.
We don’t talk. We just feel. Breathe. Move.
When I come, it’s with his name on my lips and his hand cradling my face like I’m something precious. He follows, holding still, his forehead resting against mine while the water continues to fall around us.
After, he kisses my shoulder, he moves up to my cheek, and then… my lips.
Then he reaches for the shampoo and starts washing my hair like he’s done it a hundred times before.
I don’t stop him.
I don’t want to.
And with his length pressed against my back, I know he isn’t done with me yet.
Not even close.
***
“He did what?” Vanessa squeals on the other end of the phone.
“Girl. When I tell you my body is done? I mean it. I’m sore in places I didn’t even know could get sore—and honestly, it was the best sex I’ve ever had.” I flop face-first onto the bed, nudging my laptop to the side so I can give Ness my full, scandalized attention.
She cackles. “Ivy! You sound… wrecked.”
“I am wrecked,” I groan dramatically. “I had to hold the damn wall in the shower like a support beam.”