Slippage

Emily clung to him, legs still cinched tight around his waist, the shower pounding down over both of them in heavy sheets. Her body was flushed, slippery, too aware of everything—his chest, his arms, his breath, and most of all the thick, throbbing weight trapped between them.

She could feel it shifting against her, angled slightly upward now, its length rubbing with every small movement, the head slipping just beneath the curve of her pelvis. Not quite pressing inside—but there. Threatening.

The young man breathed out slowly, barely loud enough over the water. “I’m Ryan.”

His voice was warm, nervous but steady.

Emily blinked up at him, water running in rivulets down her temples, through the corners of her lips. She was still breathless. Still balancing herself instinctively with her arms around his neck, legs tight across his lower back. His hands hadn’t moved—one supporting her ass, the other curved slightly at her waist—but her slick thighs were sliding slowly on his hips now, and the shifting weight of him below was impossible to ignore.

“Emily,” she whispered back.

And just as the name left her lips, his hips shifted. Slightly.

And she felt it.

The thick, warm crown of his cock—nudging just right. Slipping wetly between her folds. Pressing low, hot, slow.

Not inside. Not yet.

But right there.

She gasped, hips instinctively tightening. A ripple of pressure rolled through her core. Her walls fluttered—not with fear, but with a kind of panicked arousal she hadn’t expected. Her nipples rubbed against his chest again, painfully stiff.

Ryan froze.

His eyes flicked down, then back up to hers.

“Shit—I’m not trying to—” he started.

“I know,” she said quickly, voice catching.

But she didn’t pull back.

Neither did he.

The water kept running, steam curling tighter around them, and that swollen head bumped against her again—sliding along her entrance, nudging her open just enough to feel the pulse of her own slickness mixing with the water.