POV Mara
His bathroom was a revelation—twice the size of the guest bath, with a glass shower stall that could fit three and a separate soaking tub deep enough to drown in.
I dropped my towel like a gauntlet thrown, the terry cloth pooling at my feet, and positioned myself on the tub's edge with my arms crossed beneath my breasts.
The porcelain was cold against my bare skin, grounding me in this insanity I'd initiated. My body hummed with want so acute it felt like dying, but I forced myself to wait, to make him come to me, to maintain some illusion of control in this spiral toward mutual destruction.
Adrian didn't make me wait long. He entered like a man walking to his execution—eager and terrified in equal measure—his eyes burning as they tracked over me with the slow deliberation of someone memorizing what they were about to ruin.
His gaze cataloged everything: my toned arms still bearing faint bruises from the zip ties, legs that had wrapped around too many threats to count, shoulders sharp as accusations, and breasts that betrayed my attempted composure with each shallow breath.
My eyes dropped to his cock—I couldn't help it, couldn't pretend disinterest when it stood thick and ready, telling me everything his careful distance had tried to hide. The sight of him fully aroused sent liquid heat pooling between my thighs, but it was too early. He'd wanted to shower. Fine.
"Get in the shower," I said, my voice steadier than my racing pulse deserved.
"Mara—"
"Now, Adrian."
He obeyed without another word, stepping into the glass stall and turning the water to scalding.
I watched him through the clear walls—water cascading over muscle, his hands moving efficiently over his body, soaping and rinsing like this was normal, like I wasn't sitting naked on his bathtub edge, dying from want.
God, I wanted to be that soap, wanted to be the water sliding down his chest, wanted to be everything that touched him while I sat here drowning in my own desire.
My legs spread without conscious thought, thighs parting as my hand found the ache between them.
I kept my eyes on him as my fingers found my clit, circling with the desperation of someone who needed this, needed something, needed to not feel so catastrophically alone in this wanting.
"Jesus, Mara," Adrian's voice came rough through the glass, and I realized he was watching me, his hand wrapped around his cock, matching my rhythm.
"Don't stop showering," I managed, my voice breaking on a moan as I pushed two fingers inside myself, imagining they were his. "I didn't tell you to stop."
"You're going to kill me," he said, but resumed washing himself one-handed, his other hand still working his cock as he watched me fuck myself on the edge of his tub.
"That's the plan," I gasped, my fingers moving faster, chasing the orgasm building at the base of my spine. "Eventually. After. Oh God—"
He was out of the shower before I could finish, water still streaming down his body as he crossed to me, and the sight of him—wet and hard and desperate—nearly pushed me over the edge.
His cock stood between us, so close I could feel the heat of it, and I reached out with my free hand to wrap around him, stroking in time with my own fingers still working inside me.
"Fuck," he groaned, his hips bucking into my grip. "Mara, please—"
"On your knees," I said, pulling him down with the hand on his cock, needing his mouth more than my next breath.
He dropped immediately, water from his skin pooling on the marble floor, and I released his cock to thread both hands through his wet hair. His green eyes met mine—devastating in their intensity, in their complete surrender to this moment—as I guided his face between my spread thighs.
"Make me come," I commanded, though it came out more like begging. "Adrian, please, make me—"
His tongue found my clit mid-sentence, and whatever words I'd planned dissolved into a moan that echoed off the bathroom walls.
He worked me with the dedication of someone who'd been thinking about this, planning it, two fingers sliding inside me while his tongue circled my clit with devastating precision.
"Don't stop," I gasped, my hands tightening in his hair, holding him against me as my hips rocked against his face. "Right there, don't stop, don't—"
His free hand found my breast, thumb circling my nipple in rhythm with his tongue, and the dual sensation shattered something inside me. The wet sounds of his mouth on me, his fingers inside me, drove coherent thought from my brain.
"Adrian," I moaned, his name a prayer and curse tangled together. "Adrian, I'm going to—oh God, Adrian!"
The orgasm hit like a bullet, sharp and devastating, my body convulsing as I screamed his name loud enough for the entire building to hear.
I nearly tumbled backward into the tub, my muscles gone liquid, but his hands caught my hips, steadying me as I shook through the aftershocks.
He stood slowly, his cock directly at my eye level, and I'd already opened my mouth, already started leaning forward when his phone rang from the bedroom—sharp and insistent, cutting through the sex-drunk haze.
Without a word, without even a glance back, he walked out to answer it, leaving me naked and stunned on the edge of his bathtub, my thighs still trembling, his taste still in the air between us.
I sat there, reality crashing back with brutal efficiency. He wasn't my lover. We weren't building something here. He was just the enemy who happened to be helping me avenge my parents.
And apparently helping me come.
I'd thank him when I left, I decided, wrapping my arms around myself against the sudden cold. A polite, professional thank you for the orgasm, like thanking someone for holding a door.
That's all this was. That's all it could ever be.