I shower slowly, sensually. Running my palms over my own curves. Rotating in place so he can admire me from every angle.
When Cole watches me, his eyes come alive in his face. He leans back against the wall, arms folded over his chest, the clean-cut muscle of his arms visible through the thin material of his shirt.
Every turn of my body sends a twitch down the tight line of his jaw. His eyes crawl up my thighs, my ass, over his own artwork running from my hip to my ribs, even over the ugly scars marking both my arms: he likes it all.
I lift the showerhead down from the wall so I can direct the flow exactly where I want it. I let it rain down on my face, eyes closed, mouth open so the droplets pound on my tongue. I run the water across my breasts, in slow strokes in time to the music.
Sitting down on the shower bench, I spray the water on the soles of my feet, squirming a little at how it tickles. Then I run the water all the way up my leg, first one, then the other.
Cole stands motionless, watching me. His endless fascination creates a voyeuristic energy that spurs me on to stranger and stranger behaviors.
Leaning back against the cool stone wall, I spread my knees apart, opening my pussy to his view. Now he steps forward, eyes darker than an oil spill, lips pale.
I point the shower spray directly at my pussy. It’s almost too hot to bear, so I splash the water lightly against my exposed lips until I’m used to it, until I can direct the pressure right at my clit.
My head falls back against the wall, eyes closed.
I’m not watching Cole watching me anymore.
I’m feeling it.
The water caresses me, sliding in and out of my folds, running everywhere. It’s warm and powerful. The closer I bring the showerhead, the more intense the sensation becomes.
“That’s right …” Cole murmurs. “Good girl. Don’t stop.”
The flush rises up my body, filling my breasts, crawling up my neck.
The heat is almost too much. I want to turn it down.
Sensing this, Cole steps inside the shower. He drops to his knees in front of me, closing his hand over mine on the showerhead, locking my fingers in place. He points the spray right where he wants it and holds it there as the heat and pressure rises.
His trousers are drenched, as well as his expensive Italian loafers. Cole barely notices. For all his perfectionism, Cole is a pleasure-seeker just like me. He wants what he wants, and he’s willing to pay for it.
Right now he wants to make me cum, and he doesn’t give a fuck what clothes he ruins.
“You’ve done this before,” he growls.
“Yes,” I gasp.
“Is this how you learned to cum? In the bath, spreading your legs under the faucet?”
I press my lips together, hating how he uses sex to dig information out of me. Hating how arousal makes me weak.
Cole brings the showerhead closer, until it’s only an inch from my pussy, until the pounding spray is almost unbearable. He wraps the rope of my wet hair around his hand and jerks my head back, growling in my ear, “Admit it, you dirty girl. You were taking baths to cum, not to get clean.”
“Fuck being clean,” I snarl. “I’ll sleep in a dumpster if I feel like it.”
Cole’s chuckle is what tips me over—rich and wicked, vibrating down to my bones. “I know you would, you little psychopath.”
The orgasm is as hot and pounding as the shower spray. My lungs fills with steam. My skin blushes redder than rose petals.
When I’m panting against the wall, limp and loose, Cole orders, “Stay right there. Don’t move a muscle.”
I couldn’t even if I wanted to.
Cole exits the shower to retrieve something from his drawers. He’s not rummaging—his toiletries are so perfectly organized that it only takes him a moment to gather what he needs.
He returns seconds later, carrying shaving cream and a straight razor.
“I can shave myself,” I inform him.
“Not as well as I can.”
It annoys me how true that is. Even though I’m pretty fucking good with my hands, I still can’t match Cole in precision. He’s a machine, if a machine had a soul. Or part of a soul, at least.
I lean back against the wall, thighs open, pussy swollen and flushed from the hot spray. It’s deeply thrilling to offer him access to my most vulnerable parts.
My heart races as he flips open the razor, clearing the gleaming steel blade from its bone handle.
“Hold this for me,” he says, pressing the handle into my palm.
I close my fingers around it, looking at the cruel edge of the blade, thinner and sharper than any knife.