Bathroom

The bathroom was small, Queens-tiled in faded white, the mirror already fogging from the shower’s first hiss of steam. Peter stepped in first, the spray hitting his shoulders like warm rain. May followed, sliding the glass door shut behind them. The space shrank to just the two of them, water drumming on tile, the scent of her lavender soap rising in the heat.

She took the bar from the dish, lathered it between her palms until thick suds bloomed. “Turn around,” she said, voice soft under the rush of water.

Peter obeyed. May’s hands settled on his back—steady, sure, the way she’d scrubbed grass stains from his knees when he was ten. Only now her palms glided lower, tracing the lean cut of muscle along his spine, thumbs pressing into the knots Germany had left. Soap slicked over his skin, down the slope of his waist, the curve where back met ass. She kneaded there, slow circles, until he exhaled a shaky breath.

“Lower,” he murmured.

May smiled against his shoulder blade. She sank to her knees, water cascading over both of them. Her hands cupped his cheeks, spread him gently, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin behind his balls. The soap was cool at first, then warm as her fingers worked—cleaning, teasing, one fingertip circling the tight ring of muscle before sliding away. Peter’s cock jerked against his stomach, fully hard again.

She rose, turned him to face her. Water plastered her brown hair to her cheeks; droplets clung to her lashes. She lathered fresh suds and started at his throat—collarbone, sternum, the faint trail of hair below his navel. When she reached his cock, she didn’t rush. One hand cupped his balls, rolling them gently, washing away the night’s dried evidence. The other wrapped around his shaft, stroking slow and thorough, thumb sweeping over the head to clean the slit, coaxing a bead of fresh precum that the water immediately rinsed away.

Peter’s hands found her hips, pulling her closer. “Your turn.”

May shook her head, eyes bright. “I said *I* wash *you*.” She pressed him back against the tile—cool on his spine, hot water on his chest—and knelt again. This time her mouth followed her hands. She took him in, lips sealing around the head, tongue swirling to taste soap and skin and the faint salt of his arousal. Peter’s head thunked against the wall; his fingers tangled in her wet hair, not guiding, just holding.

She sucked slow, deliberate, cheeks hollowing, one hand stroking what her mouth couldn’t reach. The other slipped between her own thighs—two fingers sliding easily into her still-swollen cunt, curling in time with the bob of her head. The sound of her muffled moan vibrated around him; Peter’s hips jerked.

“May—” It was half-warning, half-prayer.

She pulled off with a wet pop, lips shiny, and stood. Water sluiced between her breasts, down the soft curve of her belly, into the neat triangle of curls. She took his hand, guided it between her legs. “Feel how ready I am.”

He did—two fingers sank into velvet heat, coated instantly with slick and the remnants of his earlier spend. May rocked against his palm, breath hitching. She reached past him, killed the spray. Silence rushed in, broken only by their breathing and the soft *schlick* of his fingers moving inside her.

Peter lifted her—hands under her thighs, her back to the tile now. May’s legs locked around his waist. He entered her in one smooth thrust, the angle perfect, her cunt gripping him like it had been waiting all night. Water dripped from their joined bodies; the mirror behind them was a useless blur of steam.

They moved slow, savoring—each roll of his hips dragging the head of his cock over that spot inside her that made her eyes flutter shut. May’s arms looped around his neck, forehead to his. “Look at me,” she whispered.

He did. Brown eyes locked on brown eyes, water beading on her lashes like tears. Her cunt fluttered, clenched; she was close. Peter shifted, grinding his pubic bone against her clit with every thrust. May’s breath fractured; she came with a soft, open-mouthed cry, inner walls pulsing, milking him. The sensation dragged him over—Peter buried himself deep and spilled, thick pulses flooding her again, the overflow slicking their thighs as it dripped to the shower floor.

They stayed pressed together, trembling, until the water cooling on their skin **** movement. May reached blindly, turned the spray back on—warm again. She washed him once more, gentle now, almost reverent: soap over his softening cock, between her own legs where his cum still leaked in slow strands. Peter returned the favor, fingers careful around her tender folds, rinsing away the evidence of their morning.

When they stepped out, towels rough against sensitive skin, May wrapped hers around him first, tucking it at his waist. She kissed the corner of his mouth, tasting water and soap and them.

“Clean enough?” she asked, smiling.

Peter pulled her close, wet hair dripping onto his shoulder. “Never,” he said. “I want to get dirty again.”