Yes

The water is already hot. Steam on the glass. Lana is under the spray, hair soaked flat, eyes closed, when the door opens and he steps in behind her.

He does not announce himself. He pulls her back against his chest, mouth on the side of her neck, and she melts into it before she even turns. Then she turns.

They make out like people who have nowhere else to be. Heavy. Mouths open. Tongues sliding. His hands on her wet ass, squeezing, lifting her a little onto her toes. Hers in his hair, tugging him closer. The kind of kissing that belongs to a couple on their honeymoon. Her back finds the tile. His body finds hers.

Cocks and cunts and promises can wait. For a minute there is only the kiss and the water and the low sound she makes when he sucks her bottom lip and grinds against her, already hard.

Then she soaps him.

She takes the bottle. Slow. Palms on his chest, lather worked in circles, thumbs over his nipples until he hisses. The path down his stomach. She turns him and does his back properly, shoulders, the line of his spine, the dip above his ass, then comes around again because she wants his face. When she reaches his cock she soaps it with her hand first. Strokes. Rinses. Then she sinks.

Not as a rule. As a want.

She cleans him with her mouth under the spray, water running off her nose and chin, lips around the head, tongue washing the slit, then deeper. Eyes up when she can manage it through the stream.

He groans. Hand in her wet hair, not forcing, just there. She takes her time. Licks the shaft from base to tip. Sucks each side. Takes him to the back of her throat and hums so he feels it. Pulls off to breathe and kiss the head like she is greeting it.

Then she stops taking her time. She works him properly, messy and devoted, hand twisting at the base, mouth taking the rest, until his stomach tightens and his fingers curl and he cums in her mouth with a rough, grateful sound. Thick pulses. She swallows, throat working, stays on him through the last twitch, then licks him clean, soft, kissing the head while the water carries anything she missed away.

He returns it.

He takes the soap. Shoulders first. The curve of her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until she sighs and leans into his palms. Stomach. Hips. The careful path down. He turns her, washes her back, kneads her ass, then brings her around again so he can see her face.

His fingers slide between her legs. Cleaning, and not only cleaning. Two of them press inside her cunt, curling, washing the night out of her and stroking that spot at the same time. She braces both hands on his shoulders. Water in her eyes. He fucks her gently with those fingers, heel of his hand rocking on her clit, until her breath breaks and she cums, shaking, forehead dropped to his chest, a moan lost in the spray and in his skin.

He does not stop at her cunt.

He takes more soap on his fingers. He turns her again, gentle, presses her chest to the tile, and starts on her ass.

Circles at first. Slow. Patient. One fingertip pressing at the tight ring, dipping in, the muscle resisting and then giving around the intrusion.

She gasps, palms flat on the wall. He adds soap. Works the finger deeper. In. Out. A little twist. A second finger, careful, stretching her open under the water, scissoring just enough to make her whimper.

His other hand comes back around. Two fingers slide into her cunt. His thumb finds her clit.

“Adam, baby.” Her voice is shaky, already dirty with it. “What are you doing?”

“There’s still a hole of yours I haven’t used,” he says against her ear, breath hot, fingers working both places in a slow rhythm. “I intend to use it tonight. Relax for me. Let me open you. Your ass is going to take my cock before you stop being my wife.”

He keeps going. Two fingers in her ass, slow thrusts, deeper each time. Two in her cunt, curling. She moans, legs shaking, the dual fill filthy and overwhelming, forehead against the tile, water pouring over her back.

He fucks both holes with his hands until the pleasure stacks and she cums again, harder, crying out his name, clenching around all four fingers, held up by his body and the wall, thighs trembling, the orgasm rolling through both places at once.

They stay under the spray until the shaking stops. He eases his fingers out. Kisses her shoulder. She turns, wrecked and smiling, and kisses his mouth, soft, grateful, a little wild. They rinse each other. He dries her hair badly and she lets him.

Breakfast is almost normal. Coffee. Eggs she does not burn. His hand on her knee under the table. Neither of them says anything out loud. It sits between them anyway.

He kisses her at the door, longer than a workday kiss, hand on the back of her neck. She goes to work with the stretch of his fingers still in her and the promise of tonight sitting low and hot in her body. He goes to work. The day in front of them. The last night behind it, waiting, already begun in the steam.