Chapter 11: Shower Sex, Slow Edging & Anal Fingering Intro

Steam already fogged the bathroom mirror by the time I stepped under the spray beside him, the morning light filtering gray through the frosted window of his apartment. Rain from last night still drummed softly against the glass, but inside the stall the world narrowed to the steady rush of hot water beating across our skin and the faint citrus scent of his body wash clinging to the tiled walls. I’d spent the night here after the office quickie—neither of us ready to let the adrenaline fade—so this felt like the natural next breath: bodies still humming from yesterday’s reckless thrill, his cum still a faint, sticky reminder between my thighs when I woke tangled in his sheets.

He stood behind me, tall frame curved to shield me from the full force of the water, hands resting light on my hips as though he couldn’t quite believe we were doing this again so soon. The lather from the soap he’d just squeezed into his palm slid down my spine in slow, creamy rivulets, tracing the curve of my lower back before the shower washed it away. I pressed back against him, feeling the solid length of his cock nestle warm and heavy between my cheeks, already thickening from nothing more than the glide of wet skin on skin.

“Morning practice,” I murmured, voice husky with sleep and want, turning just enough to catch his eye over my shoulder. “But slower this time. I want to feel every second you hold out while I’m wrapped around you.”

He exhaled a shaky laugh that turned into a groan when I reached back and guided his hand lower, letting him spread the soap across my ass in lazy circles. The suds made everything slippery, decadent, the kind of slick that turned every touch into a tease. I braced one palm on the cool tile wall, arching just enough to invite him closer, and he took the hint—pressing the blunt head of his cock against my entrance, sliding in with one long, unhurried glide that stretched me open inch by deliberate inch. The water cascaded over us both, turning the connection into something liquid and seamless, every thrust accompanied by the soft, wet slap of skin and the hiss of steam.

No frantic rhythm like the conference table yesterday. This was deliberate, languid—him buried to the hilt inside me while we stood chest to back, his arms wrapped around my waist to hold me steady. I rolled my hips in slow circles, grinding back onto him so the head of his cock dragged along that sensitive front wall with each lazy movement. “That’s it,” I whispered, voice echoing off the tiles. “Feel how deep you are? Stay right there. Don’t you dare rush it.”

He groaned low against my ear, the sound vibrating through my spine, but he obeyed—holding still except for the faint, involuntary twitch of his hips when I clenched around him on purpose. I reached for the soap again, slicking my own hands until they were covered in thick foam, then reached back to stroke him where we were joined. My fingers glided over the base of his shaft with every slow withdrawal, teasing the heavy weight of his balls, spreading lather that the water immediately rinsed away only to be replaced again. Twenty minutes felt like an eternity in the best way. I kept the pace torturously unhurried, rising onto my toes so only the tip remained inside me before sinking back down, letting the hot water sluice between us and turn every slide into pure, slippery friction.