out of the tub

She came down slowly, her body softening into the water again, sighs replacing moans, her hand finally loosening its grip. Her chest rose and fell in heavy gulps, lips parted, eyes closed. The room was thick with steam and the faint perfume of her bath oils, and Tom pressed his forehead against the bathroom door, dizzy, his own body trembling with the need he hadn’t dared act on in that moment.

Every instinct screamed to step out, to cross the tiles, to take her wet body in his arms—but he stayed rooted in shadow, panting silently, his hand still clamped over his mouth. His cock throbbed painfully in his jeans, trapped and aching, but he didn’t dare touch himself now, not while she was just beyond the door, ****, glowing, utterly spent.

Sarah reached for a towel, standing carefully, droplets racing down the smooth length of her legs. The steam veiled her like a goddess in mist, but Tom’s eyes were sharp enough to catch every forbidden detail.

She held the towel lazily as she dried herself, humming faintly as though some great weight had lifted. As much as he wanted to watch, Tom broke himself from the enchantment she was weaving, backing away. Realizing he had only seconds, he ducked back into his traditional hiding spot in the closet.

Tom watched in silence from his narrow slit of shadow as Sarah padded into the bedroom, her bare feet touching down lightly, as if the carpet itself were too delicate. She stretched, spine arching, arms lifting over her head until her breasts rose and shifted with the motion, the towel she had wrapped around her body slipping, pooling at her waist before she let it fall away altogether.

The early light through the curtains caught in her hair, turning the damp strands into a halo of gold. She opened the top drawer of her dresser without hesitation, the casual intimacy of someone alone in her own room.

Tom’s throat tightened as she bent, rifling through neatly folded stacks. The small muscles of her back shifted beneath her skin; the round weight of her hips tilted toward him as she searched. She pulled out a fresh bra, pale lace, holding it against her chest briefly before slipping her arms through. The sight of her breasts spilling forward, only half-contained before she clasped it shut, made Tom’s vision swim.

She leaned again, choosing panties this time — thin, black, barely anything at all. When she stepped into them and drew them up the smooth length of her thighs, Tom bit down hard on his tongue, stifling the sound clawing at his throat.

Piece by piece she dressed, and each motion seared into him as if it were meant only for his eyes: the clasping of her bra, the tug of her panties into place, the way she bent at the waist to retrieve stockings. She paused at the mirror, fingers combing through her hair with slow, deliberate passes, examining her reflection before moving on.

Tom stayed frozen in the closet, chest heaving, pulse loud in his skull.