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Jaxon’s hand moves to my hip, pulling me to him. With my back against the steamy wall, he kisses my chest and neck, and I’m full-send delulu, believing this means something.
His kiss deepens as the water streams around us. My hands find his shoulders, his skin slick and hot. The steam makes everything dreamlike. His tongue traces my bottom lip, and holy hell, he knows how to kiss.
There’s a moment when his expression shifts from lust to love, and you can’t tell me otherwise. I see it in his eyes, the way he holds my face so tenderly. He searches my eyes, my face, my lips, and then kisses me again. In those seconds, the torment in his face is obvious. He doesn’t know what this means. His tongue dives deeper and it’s one of those longing kisses where I know he’s been missing me.
“Fuck, you feel good,” he breathes, one hand sliding down my back, the other cupping my face.
The contrast between his gentle touch and the raw hunger in his eyes does things to me. All the things. I arch into him, loving how his breath catches when I press closer. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
His laugh rumbles through his chest. “Not so bad? I’m wounded.” But his smirk says otherwise as he backs me against the wall. The cool tile makes me gasp, and he takes full advantage, capturing my mouth again.
“You’re fine,” I breathe, pushing my tongue into his mouth.
“Less talking, more kissing,” he mumbles.
The kiss turns desperate. His hands are everywhere, leaving trails of fire across my wet skin. My hands tangle in his hair, knocking his cap off—it lands somewhere with a wet plop, but who cares about hats right now?
“Jaxon,” I whisper, and he groans.
His mouth moves to my neck. Thank god for the wall, because staying vertical is a challenge.
The shower spray hits his back, running down his ridiculous muscles. I trace a droplet down his chest, and his whole body shudders.
“You’re killing me,” he mutters into my neck, voice rough. His hands grip my hips, pulling me closer. “Actually killing me.”
I smile against his shoulder. “Cause of death: shower makeout. What a way to go.”
He laughs again, but it’s strained. Needy. “Worth it though.”
Our eyes lock, and for a moment, everything else fades away. No complications, no other people, no messy feelings we’re both pretending don’t exist. Just us, the steam, and this perfect moment.
His forehead rests against mine, our breaths mingling. “We should probably…”
He wants to stop? No. Not an option. “Yeah,” I agree, but neither of us moves. His thumbs trace circles on my hips, sending shivers up my spine.
“I mean, we could…”
“We could.”
And then we’re kissing again, harder, like we’re making up for all the kisses we’ve missed. His hands slide lower, gripping my thighs, and I wrap my legs around his waist as he lifts me against the wall.
The Weeknd’s still singing about dying for someone, but I barely hear it over our breathing and the water hitting tile. Everything narrows to touch, taste, feel—his mouth on mine, his hands on my skin, the way he whispers my name like a prayer.
Some decisions are bad.
Some are worse.
And some?
Some are worth every consequence after.
This? This is definitely the last kind.
Everything moves faster after that, but not because we’re rushing. We both know this dance too well. His hands on my hips guide me to face the tile, the cool surface against my breastsmaking me gasp. His body keeps me firmly in place, like he’s afraid I might disappear if he lets go. Maybe I would.
His right hand squeezes my hip while his left claims my breast, and there’s something possessive in his touch that makes my heart stutter. My body remembers every way we fit together. Every spot he loves to touch. Every sigh that drives him crazy.
When he turns me to the wall and pulls my hips back, his hard length pressing against me, I fight back a whimper—not from the sensation, but from how right it feels. How wrong it is that it feels right.