He looked at her.
She was still pressed against him — her palms flat on his chest, her pregnant belly warm between them, his cock sandwiched against the dome of it, the last of the cold shower water dripping from both of them onto the tile floor.
Her eyes were still wet.
Her lips were still swollen from the kiss.
She was looking at him with the expression of a woman who has run out of organized positions and is simply standing in the wreckage of all of them, waiting to see what comes next.
He snapped his fingers.
The water on her body — every droplet, every thin running rivulet from her hair to her shoulder to the curve of her belly — converted simultaneously. Not evaporating. *Converting.* The liquid phase releasing directly into diffuse vapor, the water mist rising from her skin in a soft, thin fog that curled upward around her in pale wisps and then dissipated into the bathroom air in under three seconds.
She was dry.
