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The ache had been building all evening, low and constant, made worse by the way your body always betrayed you this time of the month. You weren’t in pain — not really — just flushed and restless, sensitive in a way that made every breath feel like friction.
It hit you every time you thought about him
You could already picture the curve of his mouth when he smiled at you, soft and distracted, unaware that your whole body was burning for him. It wasn’t about romance, not right now. You just needed him. Needed his hands, his skin, the weight of him between your thighs.
You were past the point of caring.
The couch had stopped being comfortable long ago, your body unable to settle, your skin flushed too hot beneath your clothes. Every shift of fabric made you clench your teeth. Every second that passed dragged your mind back to him. To the way he would look when unlocking the door, distracted, muttering softly about the weather or the train, unaware of what he was walking into. You could already see it — the way his brow would crease when he finally looked up, his mouth parting in surprise when he saw you standing there.
You were barely holding yourself together.
The idea of waiting had dissolved somewhere between the second and third wave of arousal pulsing through your stomach, low and aching. Your thighs had started pressing together without your permission. Your fingers couldn’t stay still. You'd stripped off your sweater a while ago, not because you were too warm, but because every inch of fabric brushing your skin made you want to scream.
By now, the plan wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t even a plan.
You were going to take him the second he walked in. Right there, by the door, with your hands on his belt and your mouth at his throat. If he was startled, you’d kiss the words right out of him. If he hesitated, you’d pull until he'd melt into you.
The mess wasn’t even a thought anymore — it was part of the want, part of the need, something that turned in your chest like a dare. You didn’t care what it stained. The thought of seeing him beneath you, flushed and wide-eyed, with your blood on his thighs and your nails marks on his chest made something tighten deep in your core.
He’d be too dazed to care. He always got like that when you took the lead, breath stuttering, hands uncertain. You’d tell him it was fine. That you didn’t want gentle, not tonight. That you wanted to feel the mess, the heat, the proof of just how badly your body ached for him.
Your legs carried you halfway to the door before you even heard the sound.
Keys. Metal against metal. The slow, familiar turn of the lock.
He was home.
And you weren’t going to wait another second.
The door opened slowly, the way it always did when he was tired, careful not to let it swing too wide. He stepped inside and closed it behind him with his foot, keys still in his hand, shoulders easing only once the latch clicked into place. He looked up then, already wearing that soft, relieved smile he saved for you.
He barely got a breath in before your hands were on him.
You crossed the room without hesitation, closing the distance in just a few strides, your fingers already finding the lapels of his coat. He startled a little at the contact, something flickering in his eyes as your mouth brushed his before he could speak. The kiss wasn’t patient. It didn’t ask for permission. You pulled him down into it, your body pressed firm against his, the warmth of you catching him completely off guard.
His keys dropped to the floor with a soft clatter.
You barely registered it.
He made a sound against your mouth, something small and surprised. His lips parted like he wanted to ask what was going on but couldn't quite get the thought together. He tilted forward anyway, following the pull of your hands, caught between the kiss and the way your body pressed to his like you'd snap if there was even an inch of air left between you.
When you pulled back, his breath was unsteady. His hands hadn’t moved much. They hovered near your waist like he was afraid to hold too tight, like he still wasn’t sure what version of this night he’d walked into.
“You—uh,” he tried, blinking at you. “You missed me?”
You huffed, nearly a laugh but not quite. It shook out of you too hard, too full of heat. Your hands were already moving again, pushing his coat down his shoulders. The collar caught on his elbow and he stumbled a step, back hitting the wall behind him.
“I—” His voice cracked, a little higher than usual. “Not that I mind. Obviously. I just didn’t expect… this.”
You kissed the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, then lower, dragging your lips down the slope of his neck until you felt his pulse skip beneath your tongue.
“Is something…” he tried again, voice soft, but the question trailed off the second your hands pushed beneath his sweater.
You didn’t answer. You just looked up at him.
And maybe it was the way your face was flushed, the way you didn’t seem to care about pacing or teasing or the way your hips shifted forward like you couldn’t keep still anymore. Or maybe it was instinct, or memory, or just the way he knew you by now. Because something clicked.
“Oh,” he breathed. “Oh.”
His face went pink, his hands stilling like he’d just realized where they were.
“It’s—your period, isn’t it?” he said, quieter now, eyes flicking over your face like he was confirming it in the shape of your expression.
You didn’t speak, but something in your body answered for you. The way your mouth parted, the way your grip tightened at his hips, the way you kissed him again before he could say another word.
Spencer made another soft, startled sound, but he didn’t pull away. He never did. He stood there blinking, overwhelmed in that way he got when his thoughts were tangled up with sensation, lips moving like he might try to say something smart but no air made it out.
His hands finally landed on you, tentative but present, fingers pressing lightly into your waist like he needed to steady himself. He blinked again, dazed and slow.
“That explains the, um. Intensity,” he said, voice barely there. “Not that I’m complaining. It’s just. It makes sense. Biologically, I mean. The hormonal shift—”
You rolled your hips against him, slow and deliberate. His mouth fell open around the next word and nothing came out.
“That,” he choked. “That doesn’t help me stay focused.”
“Good.”
You gripped the hem of his sweater and pulled, dragging it up over his head in one motion. It muffled the sound he made as it passed over his face, left his hair sticking up and his expression wide-eyed and helpless.
You didn’t realize you were smiling until you felt it stretch across your face, slow and crooked, breaking against the soft gasp he gave when your hand wrapped around him. He was already so hard it made your stomach twist. The kind of hard that told you he’d been halfway there the second your mouth touched his. He couldn’t hide it even if he tried.
Spencer’s eyes fluttered shut and then opened again, unfocused. His hands were still resting exactly where you’d placed them, like he hadn’t figured out yet that he was allowed to move. His lips parted, a breath hitching on its way out, and he looked down at you with a kind of desperation that didn’t quite know where to go.
His brows knit. He looked lost in it.
And god, you loved him like this.
That hesitation, the tremble in his voice, the pink still blooming up his neck, the way his whole body seemed to ask is this really happening. It made you feel feral. There was nothing cute about the way your body throbbed for him. It was hunger, raw and red. Something wired into you. You wanted all of him. Sloppy, flushed, unravelling beneath you.
His body was waiting, fully yours, trembling with it, all soft breath and readiness, like if you told him to drop to his knees he wouldn’t even ask why.
But you didn’t want him on his knees.
You wanted him under you. Spread out, mouth open, too wrecked to do anything but take what you gave him.
You slid your hand up his chest, warm against his skin, and pushed him gently back by the sternum. Just enough to make him move. His heel caught on the edge of the rug and he stumbled slightly, his back bumping the wall with a muted thud. You didn’t give him time to recover. Your hands were on his belt, pulling the leather loose, popping the button on his pants, dragging the zipper down with a sound that made both of you shiver.
Spencer opened his mouth like he might try to say something, but your hands were already on his waistband, pushing everything down past his hips. His boxers came with them, and his cock sprung free, flushed and heavy, twitching up toward his stomach like it was begging for your mouth.
His breath caught again. You could hear the moment his knees started to go.
You stepped into him, grabbed his jaw in one hand and kissed him hard. Full and deep, like it could burn all the air out of his lungs. He melted under it, his fingers finding your waist like they didn’t know where else to land. You kissed him until his body started to lean, slow and loose and so clearly yours that you felt drunk on it.
Then you pulled back, panting.
“Down,” you said. “I’m not waiting.”
He blinked. Just once.
Then nodded.
You guided him to the floor with one hand on his shoulder, easing him down until he was sitting, legs folding beneath him, thighs spreading as he tried to find balance. He looked up at you from where he landed, flushed and blinking and already breathing hard.
You stripped your shirt off in one move. His eyes dropped immediately, his mouth parting with a sound that didn’t quite make it out.
You didn’t stop. You shoved your pants down, underwear with them, kicking them aside like they didn’t matter, like nothing mattered except the way he was looking at you now. Like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted to touch. Like the sight of you bare made his whole brain short out.
His eyes caught on the red, the smudge of it between your legs, the way you didn’t hide it. You didn’t look away. Neither did he.
His breath hitched. His hands clenched against the rug.
You stepped over him. Straddled his lap. And when you settled your weight on his thighs, he whimpered. Just a soft, barely-there sound in the back of his throat. You caught his face in your hands and kissed him again, long and slow, dragging your tongue across his lower lip until he groaned.
“Let me,” you whispered. “Let me have you like this.”
His hands finally moved, curling around your hips.
“Please,” he said, voice cracked and urgent, so quiet it was almost swallowed up by the rush of blood in your ears. “Please.”
You reached between you, just enough to angle him where you wanted him, not even wrapping your fingers around him, just the lightest drag of your palm to guide him up against his body. He twitched in your hand, hips flinching like he couldn’t help it, like the touch alone was enough to undo him.
Then you sank down, not onto him, not yet. Just enough to press your slick heat against the length of him, bare and pulsing between your thighs.
The sound he made was nothing short of broken.
You started slow. A roll of your hips, careful and deliberate, dragging yourself against the underside of his cock in one long, smooth stroke that left your thighs trembling.
Spencer sucked in a breath so sharp you could feel it shake in his chest.
The glide was filthy. Wet and thick and easy, made softer by the mess between your legs, the way the blood mixed with your arousal and turned everything to silk. You could feel it slipping against him with every grind, feel the smear of it on his skin, warm and dark and hot where you dragged yourself over him again and again.
His mouth had fallen open. His eyes were wide, locked on to where you met like he didn’t know if he was supposed to be watching this or not but couldn’t look away.
You leaned forward, bracing one hand on his shoulder, the other flattening against his chest. You moved again, hips circling this time, your clit catching just right on the thick head of his cock. You gasped, grinding down harder, chasing the friction now.
Spencer groaned, helpless. His fingers dug into your waist like he didn’t know what else to hold onto. His cock throbbed against you, already slick, painted with you from tip to base.
You rocked into him again, sharper this time, the movement small but intentional. Your clit dragged over him just right and the sensation cracked through you like a spark catching dry tinder. You let out a broken sound, breath catching high in your chest, hips stuttering as your body reacted faster than your thoughts could keep up.
It didn’t take much. It never did like this. Not when everything was already wound so tight inside you.
You ground down again, once, twice, the glide smooth and almost unreal, and your legs gave out beneath you. The orgasm hit hard and fast, a rush that knocked the air from your lungs and sent your head dropping forward to his shoulder. Your whole body shuddered, heat flooding through you as you rocked instinctively against him, chasing it even as it crested and spilled over.
“Oh god,” you breathed, the words falling apart as you came. Your fingers curled into his shoulder, holding on like the floor had tilted.
Spencer froze beneath you, breath caught in his throat like he was scared to move, scared to miss it. His hands tightened at your hips but didn’t guide, didn’t interrupt, just gripped like he needed something solid to anchor himself while you came apart in his lap. He made a sound low in his chest, something reverent and stunned, but you barely heard it. Your pulse was pounding in your ears.
You held there a second longer, forehead pressed to the side of his neck, riding out the last small tremors that kept crawling through you. Everything burned. Your thighs, your lungs, your mouth. Every inch of you felt flushed and fraying, drawn too tight.
And still.
You lifted your head.
You looked down at him.
He was a mess already. Mouth parted, pink all the way to his collarbones, his eyes wide and glassy like he couldn’t quite believe what just happened. His cock was still pressed between you, slick with everything you'd left on him, pulsing hot where it throbbed against your soaked skin. He looked like he was trying to remember how to speak.
But you weren’t done.
Your thighs were still shaking, your breath still uneven, but the hunger was worse now. Lit up, dragged higher by the afterglow. Your body wouldn’t stop wanting. The orgasm hadn’t softened you. It sharpened everything. Your skin felt too tight. Your hands wanted more to grab. Your hips kept moving like they weren’t done with him yet.
Spencer swallowed hard.
You could see the moment he realized you weren’t going to stop. His eyes flicked to your mouth, then to where your bodies met, then back to your eyes. His breath hitched. You shifted your hips again, slow, firm, grinding yourself over the thick length of him like you hadn’t just cum, like your body didn’t care how recently you'd unravelled.
He whimpered when you did it again. The grind was slower this time, more deliberate, your slick dragging over him in one long stroke that left no part untouched. His cock twitched against you, glistening and flushed, and you felt his thighs tense beneath yours. His whole body was braced, like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to stay still or beg.
You didn’t give him the chance to do either.
You reached between you without breaking eye contact, fingers curling around the base of him, guiding him where you needed him most. He twitched in your hand, breath catching sharp as he realized what you were about to do.
You didn’t hesitate.
Not for a breath. Not for a thought.
You sank down hard.
His cock pushed into you all at once, slicked with the mess between your thighs, the glide near frictionless from how soaked you were. There was no slow stretch, no gentle easing — just the sharp, sudden fullness of him deep inside you, stealing the breath from your lungs and dragging a startled, strangled sound from his throat.
“Fuck—”
It broke out of him before he could catch it. High, raw, and helpless. His hands clamped at your hips like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. His mouth hung open, eyes wide, every line in his body drawn tight as your hips snapped forward again.
You rode him fast.
No build-up. No pacing. Just pure, desperate movement, the kind that came from being too far gone to wait. The mess of blood and arousal between you made it loud — wet, obscene, every slam of your hips met with the sound of skin and slick and breathless gasps that fell from his mouth like he didn’t know how to stop them.
“Jesus—”
Your nails dug into his shoulders as you bounced on him, thighs burning, rhythm relentless. He barely managed to breathe between the noises you pulled out of him, each one rougher than the last.
“Y-you— I can’t—” he stammered, back hitting the wall behind him with every thrust. “You feel— you feel so—”
You didn’t let him finish.
You grabbed the back of his neck, crushed your mouth to his, kissed him so hard your teeth knocked, your breath tangled, and still your hips didn’t stop. He moaned into your mouth, loud and broken, his cock twitching helplessly inside you as your walls clenched around him.
“Don’t hold back,” you said, voice rough against his lips. “I want to hear you.”
And he gave it to you.
Every sound. Every gasp. Every whine.
You fucked him like you were starving for it. Like you’d never get enough. Like the ache in your belly had bloomed into something reckless and full of teeth, and he was the only thing that could touch it.
It was impossible not to see it.
With every snap of your hips, every grind that dragged slick and heat and hunger across his body, the mess of it smeared darker. Between your thighs, over the base of him, streaked up where your skin met his — red and wet, blooming stark against the pale stretch of his stomach.
You should’ve cared. You should’ve paused, should’ve thought. But there was no room for that. Not here. Not with your body still pulsing around him, not with the way he moaned when your thighs slapped against his, not with his head tipped back and his mouth open like he was offering you everything and didn’t know it.
The sight of it—of him—spattered and flushed, sweat curling in the dip of his throat, blood slicked along his skin where it had smeared up from the base of his cock to his hips—something inside you twisted. Tightened.
It hit low. Hard.
You pressed your hand flat to his happy trail, right over the streak where your last grind had left a smear of red. He gasped. His stomach jumped beneath your palm. He looked down, dazed, glassy-eyed and wrecked, and when he saw it—what you’d done to him, what you’d left on him—his breath stuttered.
You watched him take it in. Watched him see himself like that—flushed and trembling, cock buried deep in you, painted with your blood and slick. His chest rose fast and shallow. His pupils blown wide. His hands curled into the meat of your thighs.
It should have grounded you. It should have made you slow down.
Instead, it lit something in your brain that was already too far gone to name.
You braced yourself and dropped your hips hard. The sound he made was desperate.
You did it again. And again.
our thighs burned, muscles screaming, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the way he felt inside you and the noise of your bodies colliding. His breath came in stutters now, head tilted back against the wall. His eyes kept flicking downward like he couldn’t stop looking at the way your slick and blood spread across his skin. It was obscene. Beautiful. Yours.
You moved faster. Chased the friction without hesitation, without care. You could feel him shaking beneath you, thighs taut, mouth falling open with each sharp movement. His hands slid up your waist like he couldn’t help it, like he didn’t know what else to do.
"You see that?" you gasped, your voice nearly broken with it. "Look what you let me do to you."
His whole body twitched. His eyes rolled back for a second like he couldn’t handle it. Like the sight of you covered in sweat, grinding down on him with your blood smeared all over his cock and stomach, was going to ruin him completely.
His back arched with every thrust, hips lifting to meet you, no longer hesitant, no longer holding back.
His hands gripped your waist, firmer now, guiding but not controlling, grounding himself in your skin. You could feel his fingers flex each time you dropped down, his breath stuttering as you took him deep, deeper, the slick glide of blood and arousal making everything seamless and overwhelming.
His eyes never left your body. They were glassy, wide, drunk with it, darting from your face to your chest to where you slid down onto him over and over, his cock gleaming, soaked, every inch of him flushed and slick from where your bodies met. He looked absolutely ruined.
The pressure crested fast. It always did when you were like this. Everything engorged, nerves raw, your body stretched tight and overworked and still needing more. You chased it without shame, every grind sharper than the last, rolling your hips to drag your clit over the ridge of him. He cried out when you clenched, his voice catching on your name, helpless and wrecked.
You felt it coming before it hit. That tightening low in your stomach, that sweet panic of it, the way your breath caught and your whole body locked up around him. Then you came.
Hard.
It tore through you in waves, clenching around him, sparks shooting through your limbs. Your hips faltered, then stuttered again, riding it out, chasing every last second. You didn’t stop. You couldn’t. You were still grinding, still panting, still soaking in the feel of him pulsing inside you, so hot and hard and perfect.
Spencer was gasping beneath you, his hands sliding up your back now, trembling like he didn’t know where to hold. His head tipped back against the floor, curls damp with sweat, mouth parted, wrecked. His hips kept moving too, little thrusts upward that made your breath catch again, desperate to keep the feeling alive.
You dropped your hands to his chest, palms flat against his skin, and leaned forward to press your body flush to his. The angle made you shudder. You could feel everything. The stretch, the fullness, the mess of slick between you, his cock twitching deep inside your still-clenching heat.
“I can feel you clenching,” he whispered, voice frayed and open, barely a sound. “God, you feel so good. I don’t— I can’t think.”
You dragged your mouth along his jaw, not kissing, just breathing against his skin.
“Don’t think,” you murmured. “Just fuck me.”
And he did.
His hands slid lower.
You felt the shift before you even saw it—his grip tightening at your hips, his heels digging into the floor, the sudden tension that rolled through his body like a held breath finally released. Then he thrust up. Hard.
The sound you made didn’t sound like yours.
Your nails scraped across his chest, your body jolting as he drove into you with force that made your vision blur. The angle was deeper now, different. It was all instinct. All raw need. The slow, aching build was gone. He met you with urgency, hips snapping up into you again and again, hard enough that the slap of skin echoed under your breathless gasps.
You tried to keep moving, tried to hold onto your rhythm, but he’d taken over. Every time you rolled your hips down, he thrust up to meet it, harder, deeper, the friction overwhelming. He didn’t falter. He didn’t ask. He just gave. Every inch, every snap of his hips, every broken sound he pulled from you.
He cut himself off with a groan as you clenched around him again. His hips stuttered, but he didn’t stop. The sweat on his chest made your skin slick against his, sliding with every motion, and his mouth was everywhere—your neck, your jaw, your shoulder—open, desperate, like he was trying to breathe you in.
You rocked forward, bracing one hand on the floor beside his head, the other fisting in his hair as you moved with him, let him take you apart.
“Harder,” you gasped.
He obeyed.
The thrust that followed punched the air from your lungs. Then another. Then another. It was frantic now, fast and deep and messy, your bodies slick and tangled, the blood-slick glide of it only making it more unbearable. He was groaning with each thrust, sounds he never made before, rough and undone, his rhythm faltering only when you clenched around him again and whimpered into his neck.
You could feel the pressure building again, sharp and bright.
He felt it too.
You could tell by the way his hands gripped harder, by the way his hips rolled up with more force, less rhythm now, more instinct. Desperate to get deeper. To give you everything.
The pressure in your belly coiled tight. It wasn’t just arousal anymore, it was fire—pure and consuming—spread through every inch of you. You bore down against him, meeting each thrust with your own, the friction dizzying, the mess between your thighs only making the slide smoother, louder, filthier.
He thrust again and your whole body jolted forward, your palm slipping against the floor as the force of it shook through you. You cried out, your forehead dropping to his, eyes squeezed shut, breath caught somewhere in your chest.
His voice was wrecked in your ear, pleading and low.
“Let go,” he whispered. “Come for me. Please. I want to feel you again.”
Another snap of his hips, hard enough that you gasped. Then another, deep and grinding, holding you down on him as he rocked up into you with a growl that didn’t sound like anything you’d ever heard from him before.
You shattered.
The orgasm ripped through you like it had been waiting, hiding just beneath your skin. Your body clamped down around him, every nerve catching fire, your thighs shaking, your fingers clawing into his hair as your vision went white around the edges. You moaned loud and broken, swallowing it in a kiss, panting into your mouth as your hips bucked wildly against his.
You were still moving, slow and shaky, your body chasing the last waves even as your muscles trembled with the effort. Your hips rolled through the aftershocks, more grind than thrust now, friction just enough to keep the heat alive. He was still inside you, buried deep, twitching with every small shift of your weight.
Spencer groaned—long and rough and helpless.
His hands clutched at your hips, not to urge you on, but to still you. His fingers flexed, then squeezed, and you felt it through your whole body—the sharp inhale, the way his chest seized beneath yours, the way his thighs jerked once, twice.
“Wait—” he breathed, the word catching in his throat. “Too much. I—just—just a second—”
You froze.
Chest to chest, your breath fanned against his damp skin, your forehead pressed to his temple. You could feel his heart pounding. Every inch of him trembled beneath you, the kind of shaking that came from being wrung out completely, pushed too far past pleasure and still reeling from it.
He was beautiful like this.
Sweat-slick and flushed, lips parted, voice wrecked and trembling, his hair stuck to his forehead and his eyes squeezed shut like the feel of you still pulsing around him was short-circuiting everything in him.
Your hands loosened in his hair. Your mouth brushed the curve of his jaw.
“Okay,” you whispered. “Okay.”
His breath stuttered. One more soft, accidental twitch of your hips made him jolt and whimper, the sound choked off and buried in the crook of your neck. He held you tighter, like he needed to keep you still before you could finish him off completely.
Neither of you moved for a long stretch, too winded to speak, too tangled to think. Your bodies pressed together in a slow, trembling come-down, skin slick where it touched, limbs heavy. His arms had gone loose around your waist, palms still resting against your back like his hands didn’t know how to let go. Your cheek stayed pressed to his collarbone, warm against the rise and fall of his chest. You could feel his heart still hammering.
He reached up slowly, tucked your hair behind your ear with the back of his fingers. The motion was a little clumsy, like he still hadn’t figured out how to touch you after being inside you like that. You stayed there a minute longer, letting the air cool, letting the quiet settle.
Eventually, you shifted up just enough to look at him. His face was flushed, lips pink, lashes heavy over hazel eyes that were still dazed and reverent and wrecked. His gaze roamed over you like he didn’t know where to land.
Then down.
Then back up, just slightly embarrassed.
You were both a mess.
There was slick smeared down your thighs, red and wet, shining across his skin, drying into the grooves of his hip bones, streaked down your legs. His stomach was coated with it. Spilling down to the hardwood below. You didn’t care.
Spencer’s eyes lingered on the floor for a moment, his brow furrowing faintly like his brain had just started to power back on. You watched him swallow, his throat bobbing, hands still light on your hips even though everything in him looked like it wanted to melt into the floor.
“We should—” His voice was low, hoarse. He cleared it softly. “Before it sets into the wood.”
You blinked, then followed his gaze. There, beneath your knees, smeared into the grain of the floor, the darker shine of blood in the soft overhead light. You hadn’t noticed. Or maybe you had and just didn’t care.
Still didn’t, not really.
But he looked up at you again, quiet and flushed, his mouth twitching into something that was halfway to a smile.
“You start the shower?” he said, voice steadier now, still worn out at the edges. “I’ll handle this.”
You hovered over him for a moment longer, still seated on him, not quite ready to move. He didn’t rush you. Just let you take your time. You could feel him softening inside you, the gradual slip that left your thighs sticky and aching. You shifted slowly, wincing at the sensitivity, and he caught your waist when your knees faltered.
You pressed a kiss to his jaw, then one to the corner of his mouth.
“Two minutes,” you murmured against his skin. “Then you’re joining me.”
He nodded, already watching you like he wasn’t going to wait longer than that.
You pushed yourself up, legs stiff, the mess thick between your thighs. You didn’t bother trying to be delicate. You walked across the floor barefoot, a quiet trail of blood and sweat following you down the hall. Behind you, you heard a creak of movement. The soft sound of him getting to work. Wet paper towels. The hiss of water being filled in a bowl. His voice under his breath as he muttered about grain sealant and mineral oil and porosity like he was trying to calm himself down with facts.
You smiled as you turned the water on.
The pipes groaned as the shower came to life, steam already beginning to bloom across the mirror. You stood in front of the sink for a moment, fingers curled lightly against the edge of the counter, body humming, still too hot in places and too shaky in others. The light above the vanity was sharp, unforgiving, but you didn’t look away from your reflection.
Your skin was flushed, your chest damp with sweat. Hair clinging to your temples. Your lips were swollen, kissed raw.
But it was the rest of you that caught your eye.
Your thighs were streaked with red, drying in uneven trails down toward your knees, sticky in places where the skin met and pulled. A drip released from between your thighs and fell onto the tile, slow and deliberate. You watched it land.
There was no panic. No urgency. Just heat, curling low and lazy again in your belly like your body wasn’t done with him.
You looked wrecked.
You looked owned.
And you liked it. Maybe too much.
The door creaked open behind you.
You didn’t turn.
You heard him pad in barefoot, the soft sound of skin on tile, and then the pause. You watched him in the mirror, his reflection halting in the doorway, towels in hand, hair damp at the temples. His chest was flushed, his eyes darker than before.
He didn’t speak.
His gaze dropped the moment he saw you. Tracked the slick along your thighs, the red dried into your skin, the way his release was still clinging to your body like it hadn’t even tried to leave you. His jaw worked slightly. His hands twitched at his sides.
You saw the way his breathing changed. Shallow. Uneven. The way his eyes narrowed a little, then widened again like he couldn’t decide if he should be looking or looking away.
You turned your head just enough to meet his gaze in the mirror.
He held it.
Then dropped it again to the mess between your legs.
His mouth parted. No words came.
You saw the flicker of something in him. Interest. Shame. Awe. Hunger. He shifted on his feet, exhaled hard, ran a hand through his hair like he needed to shake something loose.
“Shower’s ready,” you said softly, not teasing. Just reminding him.
He didn’t answer right away. Just stared.
You watched him watching you, the space between you closing in without either of you moving. The heat hadn’t left your body. It curled along your spine, low and coiled, humming like a live-wire. He looked like he was caught in it too. Like something in the sight of you—filthy, flushed, streaked with blood and dripping with him—had short-circuited whatever self-conscious instinct might’ve kicked in after.
You turned your body slightly, slow and unhurried, letting him see the full picture. Your legs parted just enough that the mess between them caught the light again, thick where it clung to your inner thighs, sticky where it slid down the backs of your knees. His cum still eased from you in slow, wet drips, slipping past the blood that had dried in uneven smears. There was no hiding it. No point trying.
You surged forward.
His eyes barely had time to widen before your hands caught his waist, fingers pressing into damp, flushed skin as you walked him backward in a rush. His breath hitched, a short gasp of surprise, but he didn’t resist. His body followed yours like it always did, like it wanted to be moved, wanted to be taken.
The shower steamed behind him, heat curling into the air between your bodies. You didn’t stop until his back hit the tile. Then you kept going.
You stepped in after him, water cascading over both of you as he blinked through the spray. His hair darkened, lashes clumping together, water trailing down the slope of his nose. He looked stunned. Open. His lips parted, his chest rising quick beneath the weight of your stare.
You pressed your palm flat to his chest and leaned in.
The kiss came hard, all urgency and ache, your mouth slanting over his like you needed him to feel what was still roaring under your skin. Water rushed over your shoulders, spilled down between your bodies, but you barely noticed. His hands scrambled to catch your hips, your waist, finally settling on your ass.
His mouth moved with yours, wet and hungry, and when you bit his lower lip he groaned into it, hips rocking forward like he couldn’t help it. The noise he made hit low in your stomach. You pulled him tighter, let the slick press of your bodies meet again beneath the rush of water, the taste of him mixing with the heat still simmering in your blood.
You didn't slow down. Didn’t soften. You kissed him until the air left both your lungs, until the chill tile behind him warmed from overheated skin and the water traced the mess staining down the backs of your legs and into the drain.
He was panting when you finally pulled back. His hands trembled where they gripped your ass. His mouth parted, his eyes dazed.
You leaned in again, lips grazing the shell of his ear.
“Not done with you,” you whispered, breath hot against his soaked skin.
You drew back just enough to let your hands slip between you. He flinched as your palms skimmed his stomach, fingers trailing through the water and over the faint ridges of his abdomen, all flushed and slick and still smeared with the fading remnants of blood and cum. You felt the sticky drag of it, the way it caught beneath your touch, clung to the fine hair below his navel in streaks and rivulets the water hadn’t fully carried away yet.
He watched you, glassy-eyed, breath still unsteady, his chest rising faster the lower your hands went.
You grabbed the soap, lathered it between your palms until your fingers slipped over each other. Then you pressed one flat to his chest again, slow, teasing, letting the bubbles smear across the slope of him. He tensed.
You moved lower, soap trailing in lazy swirls over the flushed skin of his stomach, tracing around his hips, along the cut of his obliques. He looked down at you with parted lips, his brow knitting just slightly, trying to figure out if you were playing with him or not. The tremble in his thighs told you he was hoping you were.
You dipped lower. The mess had pooled there, between his legs, clinging to the pale skin of his inner thighs. Blood and sweat and the slick remains of everything you’d done to each other. You rubbed the soap into the filth, slow and indulgent, like you liked how ruined he looked. And you did. You liked it too much.
Spencer twitched under your touch, head falling back with a groan as you worked your hand between his legs, not touching his cock, not quite. Just cleaning. Teasing. Making a show of wiping your blood from where it had dried on his skin. Your fingers dragged through it, slippery and hot now that the water had softened the edges. You palmed the inside of his thigh, watched the way his knees locked like he was bracing for something more.
Your hand lingered on his thigh for a moment, letting the warm water rinse away the lather while your fingers smoothed circles into his skin. Not coaxing. Not commanding. Just touching him because you could, because the quiet thrum between you had shifted into something softer, slower, almost tender if not for the heat simmering underneath it.
You slid your palm upward again, slow enough that he felt every inch of the path you traced. His breath hitched. His eyes stayed on you, heavy-lidded and hopeful, his chest rising in a shallow rhythm that told you he was trying to keep still for you.
You let the tips of your fingers travel along the inside of his other thigh, following the same route, giving him time to feel it coming without giving him what he wanted. Soap clung to his skin in pearly streaks before the water carried it down. The last stains of blood faded under your touch, slipping away in red-tinted rivulets that swirled around your feet.
He looked down at you again, softer this time, almost pleading without saying anything.
The water fell in sheets over the two of you, turning everything warm and hazy. You brought your hand higher, your thumb brushing just shy of the place he needed you most. His stomach tightened. His hips shifted the smallest amount, barely a movement, but enough to tell you he was fighting the urge to press up into your touch.
You smiled, lifting your eyes to his face, taking in the pink blooming across his cheeks, the way his lips parted on a breath that never quite made it out.
“You’re quiet,” you murmured.
His throat bobbed. “You’re torturing me.”
“I’m cleaning you,” you whispered against his skin. A knowing smile gracing your lips.
He exhaled a shaky laugh, the sound dissolving into a breathless noise when your fingers traced the edge of his length without fully touching. The anticipation rolled through him so clearly you could feel it in the way his muscles tightened under your hands, in the small, helpless shiver that chased up his spine.
You let your thumb glide over the crease of his hip again. Just that. Just enough to keep him right there on the edge of wanting, suspended in the heat of it without falling forward.
“Please,” he whispered, so quietly you might’ve missed it if you weren’t so close.
Your eyes drifted down, taking in the way he was already hard for you again. Fully. Thick and flushed, standing heavy against his lower belly. The anticipation had gotten to him, wound him right back to the edge without a single deliberate touch. You watched the way the water traced over him, sliding down the length of him before gathering warm between your feet.
Slowly, you wrapped your hand around him.
His head snapped back against the tile.
A moan punched out of him, deep and startled, his hips jerking forward before he could stop himself. Your grip wasn’t tight, wasn’t fast. Just steady. Warm. Your thumb brushed the head, smearing the slickness already gathering there before the water thinned it out again. His hands flew to your shoulders, fingers curling in like he needed something to anchor himself to.
You rose onto your toes and pressed your mouth to the hinge of his jaw, kissing him softly as your hand worked him in smooth, patient strokes. His entire body leaned into you, chest brushing yours with each breath, thighs tensing beneath your touch. Every time you stroked down, a small sound left him, like he couldn’t contain the reaction.
You kept stroking him slowly, watching the way he unraveled piece by piece, his breath stumbling every time your thumb swept over the sensitive underside of his head. His hands stayed on your shoulders, trembling just slightly, like he was trying to stay upright on legs that didn’t fully belong to him anymore.
You kissed his jaw again, softer this time, letting your lips trail down the column of his throat while your hand worked him with the same steady rhythm. You could feel the urge building in you, warm and insistent, pulling downward like gravity had a purpose.
So you followed it.
You loosened your grip on him just long enough to slide your hands down his hips, steadying yourself as you lowered to your knees. The water hit your back in heavy sheets, soaking your hair, slipping down your spine. Spencer’s breath caught above you, a small, desperate sound, as if the sight alone knocked the air right out of him.
Your hands settled on his thighs first, fingers spreading over warm, damp skin. You felt him tense beneath your palms, felt the way his muscles fluttered from the lingering sensitivity mixed with sheer anticipation. His cock stood right in front of you now, flushed and stiff, the water sliding down it in long, clear trails.
You wrapped your hand around him again, slow and sure this time, feeling the way he throbbed eagerly against your palm. Your grip was firmer now, a steady slide from base to tip that made his knees shift like he needed to brace himself. His hand slipped into your hair without pulling, just resting there, fingers threading through wet strands like he needed the contact as much as the touch.
You stroked him once.
Twice.
Each movement patient, giving him time to feel everything, giving the anticipation room to climb.
You leaned in, lips barely brushing his hip, warm breath teasing against sensitive skin.
You let your mouth travel lower, unhurried, following the line of muscle and bone until your lips brushed the soft skin at the inside of his thigh.
You smiled to yourself and finally leaned in, closing your mouth around him.
The reaction was immediate. A broken sound tore from his throat, loud enough to echo in the shower. His hand tightened in your hair then, not rough, just desperate, his whole body shuddering as he adjusted to the sensation. The heat of him filled your mouth, the taste unmistakable, intensified by the steam and water and the way he was already so worked up for you.
You moved slowly at first, letting him feel it, letting the shock settle into something deeper and heavier. Your hand stayed at the base of him, steady and sure, guiding the rhythm while your mouth did the rest. Every small movement pulled another sound from him, soft gasps turning into low, helpless noises he didn’t try to swallow down.
Then you picked up the pace, lips sliding down his length, tongue pressing flat against the underside as you pulled back up—slow enough that he felt every inch, deliberate enough that his knees buckled. His breath came in ragged bursts, chest rising and falling unevenly, hips twitching forward in small, aborted movements.
Your mouth was relentless. Wet and messy and just shy of rough, drool mixing with precum, dripping down your chin and onto your chest. The sounds alone were filthy, the slick drag of lips, the choked-off moans above you, the way Spencer's fingers flexed in your hair like he was fighting not to push you deeper.
Then your hand moved lower, fingers trailing down the sensitive underside of his cock before cupping his balls. Gentle at first, just holding the weight of them in your palm. You felt him jerk against your tongue, heard the punched-out gasp as your thumb brushed the delicate skin behind them. His thighs trembled when you rolled them slowly between your fingers, testing the give, squeezing just enough to make his hips stutter forward.
You took him deeper—all the way—until your nose pressed against his pelvis and his cock hit the back of your throat. His strangled cry reverberated through you, his hands scrabbling at the tile for purchase as you swallowed around him, hollowing your cheeks while your fingers worked his sack with slow, deliberate pressure. Every pull of your lips dragged another ragged noise from him, his breath coming in shallow pants that hitched whenever your nails grazed that tender space behind his balls.
You kept the rhythm steady, your mouth gliding over his cock with firm, insistent pulls that made his breath hitch in sharp bursts. You could feel the heat radiating from his skin, the way his shaft pulsed against your tongue with every stroke, growing even harder under your attention.
Your lips tightened around the head, sucking with a deliberate pop before sliding down again, taking him as far as you could without gagging. The taste of him flooded your senses, salty and thick, and you savoured it, letting your tongue trace the thick vein along the underside. He let out a low, guttural moan, his hips bucking slightly despite your hand pressing against his thigh to hold him still. You wanted him desperate, teetering, but not over the edge yet.
Shifting your grip, you used one hand to stroke the base in slow twists, while the other teased lower, fingertips brushing the crease where his thigh met his groin. His body jerked at the touch, a whine escaping his lips as you massaged the sensitive spot, light circles that made his balls draw up tighter in your palm. You rolled them again, firmer this time, feeling the weight shift as he tensed, his cock twitching deep in your throat.
You pulled off with a wet gasp, strings of saliva connecting your lips to his glistening tip, and dove back in, hollowing your cheeks for that extra suction. Spencer's knees locked, his free hand slamming against the wall for support as you bobbed faster, the slick sounds filling the space between his ragged pleas.
You didn't relent, alternating between deep throating him and focusing on the head, your tongue swirling relentlessly over the slit to coax out more precum. It beaded steadily, and you lapped it up, the flavour making you hum low in your chest, the vibration shooting straight through him. His thighs clenched under your touch, muscles rippling as you squeezed his balls gently, tugging just enough to heighten the ache without pushing him too far.
Leaning in closer, you let your teeth scrape lightly along his length on the upstroke, the barest hint of edge that drew a sharp hiss from him. His cock throbbed in response, swelling against your tongue, and you could sense how close he was, the way his breaths came in shallow, frantic pants. But you slowed just a fraction, easing the pressure with long, languid licks from base to tip, your hands pumping him in tandem to keep the fire simmering.
Spencer's breaths came in short, sharp bursts, his hand in your hair loosening then tightening rhythmically, guiding without forcing. You could tell he was close, the way his cock swelled against your tongue, the desperate edge to his sounds, but you eased off just enough, slowing your pace to keep him hovering on that brink. Your own arousal throbbed between your legs, the heat of the shower amplifying it, but you savoured drawing this out, watching him unravel inch by inch.
Finally, you pulled off with a wet pop, looking up at him through the spray. His chest heaved, eyes dark and wild when they met yours.
"I need you," he rasped, voice raw from all the noises you'd pulled from him.
You stood slowly, pressing your body against his, feeling his hard length slide against your stomach as you rose. Your hands roamed up his sides, nails digging in lightly, before you turned and braced against the wall, arching your back to present yourself.
His breath hitched. Loud. Uncontrolled. The kind of sound that cracked straight from his chest and filled the space between you. You didn’t look back, didn’t need to, not with the way you could feel the tension pouring off him in waves.
His hands hovered for a second, admiring the way you offered yourself up like that, slick and ready, spine curved in invitation.
His palms found your hips first, firm and shaking, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh there. You shifted just enough to push back into his touch, teasing, deliberate, the motion earning a hiss through his teeth. He lined himself up without a word, cock dragging through the mess still leaking from you, and you felt the tremble in his fingers when he realized just how wet you still were.
He sank into you with one thrust, slow but not gentle, the stretch making your eyes slam shut as your palms flattened harder against the tile. You exhaled through your teeth, every inch of him filling you again, deeper now, the angle brutal in the best way. He cursed under his breath behind you, voice low and fraying at the edges.
“Fuck,” he groaned, holding still once he was fully seated inside.
You thrust your hips back in response, wordless, hungry, and he responded on instinct. His grip tightened, dragging you back as he snapped forward again, pace quickening fast. The rhythm was all need, all heat, hips smacking into yours with wet, obscene sounds that made your stomach clench. He was panting now, grunting with every thrust, the sound of skin on skin echoing around you as he drove into you over and over.
You reached between your legs, fingers finding your clit and circling hard and fast, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. The pressure was already coiling, tight and hot, building with every slap of his hips. Your head fell forward, mouth falling open, moaning helplessly as the pleasure built sharp behind your ribs.
Spencer’s voice broke behind you. “I’m not gonna last—fuck—you feel so good."
He choked off with a groan as you clenched around him again, your body pulsing and clenching and dripping down your thighs with every thrust. You knew he could see it. Knew it was driving him insane. The mix of blood and slick and his own release smeared over you only adding to the filthy, mindless frenzy.
Spencer’s rhythm broke for a moment, more from shock than control, his breath catching in a mess of gasps and curses as he watched the movement of your bodies. The sight alone nearly undid him. His hands splayed wider over your hips, gripping with a kind of desperate reverence, fingers slipping against your skin but never losing their hold. Every thrust sent a heavy jolt through him, like the force of your heat was knocking him off-balance.
He couldn’t look away.
Your thighs gleamed, slick and shining where everything still leaked from you. Each impact of his hips spread it further, smearing it in thin trails down your legs, catching in the soft dip behind your knee before turning into droplets that fell to the floor. Your body took him greedily, pulsing around him in tight, rhythmic squeezes that made his entire frame shudder. It was too much. It was perfect. It was exactly where he was meant to be.
You worked your clit harder now, circles tight and fast, your breath turning ragged as the sensation climbed. Every rock of your hips caused him to sink deeper, letting him feel the way you throbbed around him, the way you welcomed each thrust like it was the only thing keeping you upright. Your moans grew louder, spilling from you in uneven sounds that made his cock twitch inside you.
Spencer leaned over you, chest brushing your back, voice breaking open against your shoulder. “You’re unreal,” he whispered, his tone cracked and breathless. “I can’t… I can’t even think.”
Each thrust grew rougher, sharper, driven by instinct and the raw need thrumming between you. His stomach brushed your lower back with every forward snap, a slick warmth spreading, mixing, dripping down both your thighs. You felt him quivering, felt the frantic tension in his muscles as he tried and failed to keep his pace steady.
“Spence,” you gasped, your voice tight and high. The pressure surged in your belly, low and blinding, pulling you toward the edge so fast your legs trembled. You pushed back against him hard, meeting his thrust with everything you had. The angle hit perfectly, your fingers pressing down on the exact spot that made your breath cut off.
Your walls clenched violently around him, and his answering groan cracked into a near whimper. He tried to hold it together, you felt it, the way he tensed and locked his jaw as if he could force the pleasure back down through sheer will. But your body kept fluttering around him, milking him with every grind.
Your orgasm hit first, sharp and devastating, ripping through you with a cry that echoed off the tiles. Your hand faltered but didn’t stop, your body jerking forward as the wave tore through you, clenching him in erratic, pulsing squeezes. Your knees buckled for a moment, palms sliding against the wall as you fought to ride out every second of it, gasping Spencer’s name in broken moans.
Your release dragged him straight over the edge. His breath punched out of him in a strangled groan, hips slamming forward one last time as he spilled into you again. His body trembled hard, thighs shaking, forehead pressing to your shoulder as he gasped through each pulse of pleasure. His fingers dug into your hips, pulling you back against him as if he needed to feel every drop spill from him into you.
You stayed like that, both of you shaking, his cock twitching deep inside you as the aftershocks ran through him. Every small movement made him moan softly into your skin, overwhelmed, undone, still buried inside you while your legs trembled beneath you.
Neither one of you spoke.
Neither one of you could move.
The only thing that existed in that moment was the heat of him sinking into the deepest part of you and the slow, rhythmic flutter of your body still trying to take more.
Spencer stayed inside you even as his knees began to buckle, his breath catching in broken exhales against your shoulder. You could feel every twitch of him softening, the warmth of his release slipping from you in slow drips down your thighs. His arms were wrapped around your waist now, no longer gripping, just holding.
Your palms were still braced against the wall. Your knees trembled beneath you, not from arousal anymore but from exhaustion. The kind that felt earned, full-bodied and bone-deep, as if your body had been waiting for this release for longer than you realized. You weren’t just tired, you were sated.
Finally.
There was a fullness in your chest, heavy and warm, spreading outward in lazy pulses that slowed your thoughts to a crawl. You didn’t need to think. For once, your mind was quiet. Your breath started to steady. You could feel your heartbeat slowing, syncing with the faint rise and fall of his chest against your back.
He shifted slightly, just enough to ease himself out of you. You winced at the sensitivity, at the sudden emptiness, but didn’t move away. Instead, you leaned your weight into him, eyes fluttering closed as your head dropped back.
The seconds stretched, slow and syrupy, the adrenaline fading, leaving behind a tenderness that you didn’t want to disturb. You turned in his arms eventually, carefully, and he helped you, steadying your hips as you rotated to face him. His eyes swept over your face with a tenderness that made your heart flutter.
He was still breathing hard, still a little unsteady, but his hands stayed sure on you. One slid up your back while the other settled at your waist, gathering you close before you could wobble again. You could feel the effort in him now, the careful way he shifted his footing and guided you with him instead of letting you move on your own.
“Come here,” he murmured quietly.
He turned the two of you together and stepped back, drawing you with him until the spray fell over your shoulders and down your spine. The warmth hit first, then the slow relief of it, easing the tightness in your muscles, washing down over skin that still felt too sensitive everywhere he had touched. You leaned into him without thinking, your forehead brushing his collarbone as his arms circled you again.
His chin rested lightly near the top of your head. You felt him exhale, long and quiet, the tension finally leaving his shoulders. Some of the damp strands of your hair clung to his skin and he carefully brushed them away from your face, his fingers gentler now than they had been minutes before.
His arms stayed around you, but the tension in them softened. Not clinging out of worry, not hovering, just keeping you close while both of you caught your breath. Your cheek rested against his chest and for a moment neither of you tried to say anything. The rush had drained out of your body and left behind something gentle and slow. Your mind felt hazy, like you were floating just under the surface of sleep, thoughts drifting without urgency. The tight restless edge that had been need earlier was gone. In its place was a steady contentment that spread through you, heavy and comforting.
You exhaled and felt it all the way to your fingertips.
Spencer brushed his hand slowly down your back, then back up again, an absent motion while he rested his chin lightly near your temple. After a moment he shifted one hand to your arm and glanced down at you.
“Okay,” he said softly, almost to himself. “We should actually clean up.”
You nodded, still slow, still a little fuzzy.
He reached for the soap and worked it between his hands before gently guiding you to turn. His touch was careful but not hesitant. He smoothed the lather across your shoulders first, then down your arms, taking his time without making a production of it. It felt grounding, the simple normalcy of it after everything that had just happened.
Your brain felt slow in the best way. Thoughts drifted in and out without sticking, replaced by a gentle contentment that settled deep in your chest. You felt full, relaxed, and oddly light all at once, like your body had finally gotten something it had been asking for all day.
He cleaned the rest of you off, one hand steady at your waist to keep you balanced while the other smoothed over your skin. It wasn’t careful in a worried way. It was simple. Familiar. The kind of touch people fall into when they no longer feel the need to impress each other.
You picked up the soap from his hand without asking and turned slightly in his arms.
“My turn.”
He huffed a quiet breath that almost sounded like a laugh and lifted his arms without hesitation. You ran the lather over his chest, tracing the path slowly while he watched you with softened eyes. He didn’t look embarrassed anymore. Just settled. His hands stayed on your hips, not pulling, just resting there while you worked.
Neither of you spoke for a bit.
You rinsed his shoulders and down his arms, your movements unhurried. The closeness lingered but the urgency was gone, replaced by something steadier. He leaned forward just enough that his forehead brushed yours for a second before he straightened again, a small unconscious motion like he wanted to stay connected even while you cleaned him.
Your thoughts still felt hazy, drifting, your mouth curved in a faint smile you hadn’t noticed forming. You weren’t thinking about what came next or earlier or anything at all. Just the quiet here with him, hands moving over skin, the comfortable weight of his presence beside you.
When you finished, you rested your palm against his chest for a moment.
He covered your hand with his.
Your palm stayed over his heartbeat, his fingers resting loosely across the back of your hand. The contact was simple and steady, and you felt your shoulders drop another inch without realizing they had been tense at all.
He turned his hand slightly and laced your fingers together, guiding your hand away from his chest but not letting go. You followed the motion without thinking, stepping closer when he shifted nearer. Your forehead brushed his collarbone and you stayed there, eyes half closed, breathing slow and even.
His chin rested lightly against the top of your head. One arm circled around your back, not tight, just there. His thumb moved idly over your side in small, absent passes that never quite stopped. You leaned into him and let your weight settle. Your mind felt soft and unfocused, thoughts drifting past without catching.
He reached past you and shut off the water. Silence wrapped around the small space. With no rush, he stepped back, reaching out to snag towels for the two of you.
The towel was rough in a comforting way, dragging away the last of the damp chill along your shoulders and down your arms. He worked in calm, practical strokes, not fussy, not rushed. When he was done he wrapped the towel snug around you, tucking the edge at your chest so it stayed in place.
He took one for himself and did the same, rubbing it briskly over his chest and down his sides before knotting it low at his hips. For a moment you both just stood there, facing each other, bare feet on tile, towels hanging crooked and imperfect.
You felt pleasantly heavy. Limbs loose. Your mind moved slower than usual, thoughts floating just out of reach in a way that felt more peaceful than foggy. The aching emptiness between your legs only made you more aware of how full you had been a few minutes before. A small, lazy pulse of satisfaction rolled through you at the thought.
He stepped closer again, like it was the most natural thing in the world, and you let him pull you in. Your body slotted against his, towel to towel, his hands sliding around your waist and resting at the small of your back. You let your forehead tip against his collarbone, breathing in the faint mix of his sweat and soap.
He pressed a soft kiss over your brow, then another near your cheek, lingering a heartbeat each time. No angle to it. Just contact. His fingers traced a slow line up and down your spine over the towel, a gentle rhythm that did not ask anything from you.
You stayed like that for a little while, not counting seconds, not needing to fill the space with words. The afterglow hummed low and steady in your chest, leaving you warm in that deep, blurred way that came when every nerve had finally stopped ringing.
Eventually you eased back, sliding your hands down his chest to rest at his waist. Your fingertips brushed the edge of his towel, then slipped away as you gave him a faint, tired smile.
“Go on,” you said softly. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
He searched your face for a second, then nodded. One of his hands lifted to squeeze your side, thumb pressing a small circle into the towel there, and he leaned in to kiss you once more, slow and gentle.
Then he turned and padded out of the bathroom, leaving the door not quite closed behind him while you stayed where you were, letting yourself enjoy the last quiet stretch of the night before joining him.
You stayed where you were for a moment, then crossed to the cabinet beneath the sink. You opened it and took a brief minute to sort yourself out, doing what you needed to do, familiar and efficient.
When you were done, you tightened the towel around yourself and stepped out of the bathroom to join him.
The bedroom was dim when you walked in, lit only by the soft spill from the hallway. He had already pulled on a worn pair of sleep pants and was sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing the last dampness from his hair with a towel. When he saw you in the doorway he stopped what he was doing, towel dropping into his lap, eyes going straight to you.
He didn't say anything right away, just watched you with that quiet intensity he had, the kind that made the room feel smaller, warmer. His gaze traced the line of your towel, not hungry like before, but appreciative, like he was cataloguing the way the steam still clung to your skin.
You stepped closer, the tile cool under your feet giving way to the carpet in the bedroom. He set the towel aside fully now, reaching out a hand. You took it, letting him draw you between his knees as he sat there on the bed's edge. His palm was warm against yours, fingers lacing loosely, thumb stroking the back of your hand in unhurried passes.
The air between you carried a quiet familiarity, the kind built from shared routines and unspoken understandings. His thumb kept up its steady motion, a small anchor in the dim light.
You stood there for a moment, letting the warmth of his hand seep into yours, before you eased back slightly. "I'm going to change," you murmured, not a question but a soft statement.
He nodded, releasing your hand without pulling away entirely. His eyes stayed on you as you turned to the dresser, the towel loosening just enough to slip free. You pulled on the unsexy panties you usually worn while on you period and a loose sleep shirt, the fabric cool against your skin, settling like a sigh.
When you faced him again, he'd moved back onto the bed, sheets rumpled around his hips, one knee bent casually. He patted the space beside him, a subtle invitation. You climbed in, the mattress shifting under your weight, and he adjusted immediately, arm sliding around your shoulders to draw you close.
You nestled against his side, head on his chest, one leg hooking loosely over his. The steady rise and fall of his breathing synced with yours, a rhythm that needed no words. His hand drifted down, palm settling over your lower abdomen, fingers splaying wide in that deliberate way he knew eased the cramps—the gentle pressure, circular and unhurried, chasing away the dull ache with warmth alone.
You let out a quiet breath, body relaxing further into the contact. His touch stayed there, consistent, like he could sense the subtle twinges without you saying a thing.
The room's hush wrapped around you both as you reached over and clicked off the bedside lamp, leaving only the faint outline of shadows and the distant, indifferent sounds of the street outside.
You settled deeper against him, finding the angle that worked, the one you'd found enough times now that it didn't take adjusting. His arm stayed around you, loose and easy. His hand rested warm against your stomach and stayed there.
The ceiling disappeared into dark above you. Neither of you moved to fill the quiet. His breathing was already slowing, chest rising and falling in long even pulls beneath your cheek, and yours followed without you asking it to.
You closed your eyes. The sheets were warm where your bodies had been, cool at the edges. His heartbeat was steady under your ear, unhurried, the same as it always was. Your thoughts loosened their grip one by one and drifted somewhere you couldn't follow.
You were almost gone when you felt him exhale, long and quiet, his whole body settling another degree.
You settled into him until there was nothing left but a bed, a blanket, and the simple, solid warmth of him at your back.