The sudden absence left me reeling.
He tilted his head toward an old brick building tucked behind the overlook — a shadowed door barely visible beneath flickering neon from a broken sign above it: MOTEL — one letter burnt out so only O TEL remained lit.
"You wanna be ruined?" His voice was rough velvet now, laced with promise and danger all at once. "Come inside."
I stepped forward first — shoulders back, hips swaying.
"Lead the way," I said, voice cool.
He hesitated for half a second, thrown by the shift. Then that smirk returned, darker now — curious. "You're something else."
Inside, the room was dim: peeling wallpaper, low amber lamp on a nightstand casting shadows on stained carpet. Cheap but clean enough— the kind of place built for secrets and short stays. Good. I won't have to spend much on paying for the rent.
I tossed my purse onto the bed and turned to him as he shut the door behind us with a soft click. No locks slid into place — I didn't need him caging me in to stay put.
"Take your clothes off," I said.
His brow lifted sharply—"That so?"
"No," I cut in smoothly before he could flex his dominance again. "Shower first."
He tilted his head slightly — not annoyed — just neutral as he leaned against the door like he owned it.
"You think I stink?"
"No," I said flatly stepping closer until we were chest-to-chest ─ well, hair to chest — and held steady eye contact without flinching under his size or stare — "but you've been riding through who-knows-what kind of stuff on that thing all night before you met me." My hand drifted down between us—not touching yet, but close enough heat bled through fabric from one body to another. "I don't know what kind of dirt's clinging under that cloth." A slow smile played at my lips as mine shifted subtly against his thigh — a tease masked as confidence. "And trust me… if you're gonna touch me... we're doing this right."
A beat.
Then: "We're both showering."
His eyebrow twitched up — surprised? Amused? Didn't matter.
"My rules," I added flatly.
After a beat, he shrugged out of his jacket slowly—as though conceding nothing—but watching me too closely not to be intrigued, and nodded toward the bathroom tucked just off the main room.
"Then get in," he challenged softly—with fire reigniting beneath velvet tone — "and make it fast."
I gave him one last look over my shoulder—one laced with danger and dare alike—
Then walked past him into steam-lit darkness ahead...
Clothes already slipping loose at shoulders before either spoke again.
The bathroom was small, tiled in cracked white porcelain, the air already thick with steam as the shower hissed to life. I stepped under the spray first, letting it soak my hair and run in rivulets down my body — clothes peeled off and tossed aside without ceremony.
The curtain slid open a moment later.
He stepped in — slow, deliberate — naked and unashamed. Water sluiced over his shoulders, down the hard planes of his chest and stomach. He didn't touch me right away. Just stood there under the spray with me beneath that low ceiling of heat and mist like we were caged together by design.
I turned to face him — close enough that our bodies almost touched, and reached for the soap on the ledge without breaking eye contact.
"I like things clean," I murmured, lathering my hands slowly. "Especially before they get dirty."
A slow grin curled at his lips, but he didn't move to take control.
Good boy.
I stepped into him then—not waiting—and dragged my soapy hands across his chest, down over muscle that tensed under my touch. My fingers moved lower… slower… but stopped just before dipping below waistline.
"See?" I whispered near his ear as water drummed between us like a second heartbeat. "No dirt."
Then I dropped to my knees. The tiles were cool beneath me as hot water cascaded over both of us, and looked up through soaked lashes with nothing but pure daring burning behind them:
"But you still haven't earned this."
Shock flickered in his gaze — so briefly, I thought I might've imagined it— before control snapped back into place. His hand shot out, wrapping around the back of my neck, fingers threading through hair that had gone half-liquid in the water. For a moment, his grip was the only thing keeping me upright; the only thing anchoring me where I knelt.
He leaned down—his eyes never leaving mine. "You think I can't earn it?" he murmured back in challenge.
My eyes narrowed at his tone — but I still didn't break eye contact. "I think you're used to things being easy," I replied simply, holding his gaze without flinching. But neck still hurts a bit.
His lips curved into a smirk, but there was an edge of warning beneath it.
"And you're not easy?" he purred, the words dripping with condescension.
I smiled then. Slow. Dangerous.
"I'm worth every challenge."
His smirk deepened. "Careful, sweetheart." The hand in my hair gripped a little harder — just short of pain. "Your confidence might get you in trouble."
I tipped my chin up a degree, and still not breaking eye contact. "Maybe that's the point." Because if I wasn't in control, I didn't know who I'd be.
He lowered himself down to my level — so we were face to face under the water — and his grip tightened further. My scalp burned from the strain, but I didn't show it.
"You like trouble then?" he asked quietly and dangerous. "Or are you just playing with fire?"
I held his gaze, refusing to look away — even as water hit our faces and my hair hung like a heavy veil.
"Maybe I'm tired of being careful," I said evenly.
For a second, something shifted in his gaze — the smallest crack in his mask—like maybe he wasn't the only one who was used to things being easy.
He pulled back then, letting go of me with a smirk. "Let's find out how you handle the heat then."
He turned off the shower, leaving us standing together in sudden silence—dripping, steaming, almost touching.
I could hear the ragged hitch of my own breath — too harsh in the small space. Or maybe that was his.
Slowly, deliberately — I stood, water still washing over both of us. He was closer than I expected — I had to tilt my head up to look at him.
His eyes trailed slowly down my body in a look that held no shame — only appreciation.
And hunger.
I didn't wait for permission.
Hands on his chest, I pushed him back — hard — until his shoulders hit the damp tiles. He let out a low, surprised grunt — but didn't resist. Not yet.
"Still think you're in control?" I asked, voice rough as my fingers trailed down his stomach, watching every muscle flex beneath my touch.
His jaw clenched. "You keep pushing."
"And you keep letting me." My hand dipped lower — just enough to make him inhale sharply — then stopped. "See? You want it worse than I do."
A growl rumbled in his chest and suddenly — I was the one pinned against the wall.