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I understand. Her body remembers every touch, just as mine remembers every curve. I reach for the cloth hanging nearby, wet it under the stream, and drag it slowly across her shoulder.

"You marked me with paint," I say, voice low and thick with something I've never allowed myself to feel before. "Now I'm washing you with it."

She doesn't respond verbally, but her breath catches, a small hitch that speaks volumes. When I trail the cloth down her back, following the elegant line of her spine to the curve of her ass, she leans into me—a silent request for more.

The colors run between us now, water turning everything into watercolor between our bodies. Black. Gold. Desire. She's stained from her throat to her ankles, and part of me doesn't want to see it go.

But I clean her anyway, dragging the cloth across her skin with reverent precision. The water isn't about erasing; it's about reminding her what I've left beneath the surface.

I draw the cloth between her thighs, and she whimpers—a sound so soft and vulnerable I nearly drop to my knees right there. My fingers follow the path I've just cleaned, no longer hindered by fabric. Bare. Possessive. Seeking.

When she gasps, I press my mouth to the back of her neck, finding her pulse withmy lips.

"I could spend the rest of my life touching you," I confess against her skin, "and still never be done."

Her knees nearly buckle. I catch her immediately, one arm wrapping around her waist while my other hand drops the cloth entirely.

Because I need to feel her. All of her. Without barriers. Without pretense.

Her skin is slick beneath my palms, her body trembling as I explore. I run my hands over the swell of her breasts, the delicate cage of her ribs, the gentle curve of her hips—mapping every inch like I need it committed to memory.

"You're so beautiful," I murmur, honesty breaking through the walls I usually maintain. "Not because of how you look. Because you fucking survived."

She turns in my arms then—slow, deliberate, wrecked in the most beautiful way—and looks up at me like she's seeing something clearly for the first time. Our eyes lock, and something passes between us that I can't name but recognize in every cell of my body.

And then she touches me.

Her hand lifts, hesitates for just a moment, before pressing flat against my chest—right over my heart.

Paint still smears her palm, wet and vibrant.

It stains me instantly, marking my skin with her colors.

And I let it.

"Don't wash it off," she whispers, eyes never leaving mine.

My knees nearly give at the request. At the meaning behind it. At the way her voice breaks on the words.

"You want me marked?" I ask, voice rough with desire and something deeper. "Or ruined?"

She doesn't answer directly. Instead, her hands begin to move—dragging across my chest, over my shoulders, down myarms. Paint mixing with water. Need mixing with worship. Every touch telling me what words can't.

I grow hard between us, my cock thick and aching, because fuck, I'll never not want her. When her gaze drops to it—when she feels it press against her stomach—she doesn't pull away.

She steps closer, her chest brushing mine, droplets caught between our bodies.

"Touch me again," she says, and it sounds like a challenge. Like a prayer.

I capture her chin with my hand. "I never stopped."

The look she gives me is somewhere between defiance and surrender. Like she doesn't realize I've been unraveling for her since the moment she stepped into my world. Like she can't see that I've never wanted anything the way I want her.

I kiss her—hard, deep, possessive. My tongue slides against hers, tasting, claiming, branding her with sensations I want her to remember long after the paint washes away. Her arms wrap around my neck, paint-stained fingers threading through my hair, and I press her back against the cool tile as water continues to pour over us.

"Tell me what you need," I murmur against her jaw, teeth grazing the delicate skin there. "Tell me how to worship you."

"You already do," she whispers.