Steam encapsulated and caressed them as he slid the glass door closed. Drawing her up against him, Étienne stepped back into the fountain of water and let it flow over them like hands.
Krysta touched his shoulders, drew her fingers down his slick chest as he tilted his head back.
Water turned his hair into a sleek, black cap, straight and soft and shiny against his handsome face. Reversing their positions, he settled his hands low on her spine.
Krysta arched her back and reached up to run her fingers through her hair as the warm water swiftly saturated it.
Étienne pressed his hips into hers, sliding his hard cock between her parted thighs and sending shocks of pleasure through her.
Her breath caught. She lowered her chin and met his gaze.
“You’re so beautiful, Krysta.”
Abandoning her hair, she gripped his biceps. “So are you.”
He leaned closer.
Anticipation rose as she focused on his lips.
He drew back, a bar of soap and two washcloths in his hand.
Had he just been reaching past her?
“Tease,” she grumbled as he stepped back, breaking all contact.
He laughed. But that glowing gaze continued to roam her as he lathered up one of the cloths and handed it to her.
Krysta took it and began to vigorously scrub one arm, removing splotches of blood as she watched him lather up the other cloth and return the soap to the dish behind her.
“Slower,” he instructed, voice silky smooth.
She paused.
Étienne kept his eyes on Krysta, focusing on her exquisite, expressive face as he drew his soapy cloth down one arm in long, leisurely strokes, then up again.
Hunger flared in her gaze as she watched the motion, then mimicked it herself, slowing her movements to sensual strokes.
He smiled, hard and aching and loving the suspense, loving having to wait, loving making her wait, knowing how explosive it would be when they finally joined.
He drew the cloth down over his other arm.
Krysta did the same.
He slid it down his side, over his hip and down one leg.
Krysta continued to follow his lead, her gaze frequently skipping to the erection that strained toward her.
Up one leg, then down the other. Then back up the leg and his other side. He slid the cloth over his chest, dragging the material over his nipples and imagining it was her hands.
Krysta did the same, gasping and biting her lip.
He dropped his cloth. She dropped hers and took a step toward him.
Étienne shook his head. “Not yet.”
She stopped and stared as he slid his soapy hands over his chest. Then she cupped her breasts in soapy hands and squeezed them with a moan.
His pulse raced. For a moment he forgot to move.
Her hips shifted restlessly as she continued to fondle her breasts, stroking, squeezing, and pinching the hard, pink tips. Then she slid one hand down her flat stomach.
Étienne slid a hand down his own.
Her fingers brushed the dark thatch of hair at the juncture of her thighs.
His fingers brushed his.
She widened her stance.
His body caught fire.
She slid those delicate fingers between her legs and moaned again as she stroked the nub hidden there.
Étienne fisted his cock, heart pounding against his ribs as he drew his hand down the long length and squeezed the sensitive tip.
She eased back a step. Water struck the back of her neck and sluiced down over her shoulders, rinsing the soap away and making her skin gleam as she continued to squeeze and massage one breast while stroking herself between her legs.
She rubbed and circled and pinched her clit, breath coming quick, as her eyes met his. Her hand slid lower. Arching against her palm, she thrust two fingers inside her warm, wet sheath.
His hand tightened on his cock.
“This is where I want you,” Krysta whispered, withdrawing her fingers, then thrusting them inside again, imagining it was him.
Étienne’s eyes flashed an even brighter amber.
“Only you,” she murmured, need rising. “So long and hard and thick.”
Muttering something in French, he blurred.
Krysta heard the shower door open, became weightless, then found herself in bed on her back in seconds. Étienne loomed over her, no longer soapy. Muscles bunching, he settled himself between her thighs, then thrust inside her.
Pure pleasure.
Krysta cried out as he buried himself deep, then withdrew and thrust again. And again. And again. Reaching down, she grabbed his ass and urged him on, arching up against him, moaning with every breath.
He cupped the breast she had neglected in one large hand, squeezing and caressing and doing all of the things she had been imagining when she had touched herself.
“I need you,” he growled.
I need you, too, she thought, so breathless she couldn’t speak.
Fire burned through her. She arched against him. Over and over. So good.
His lips teased the sensitive skin of her neck.