Page 32 of Luca
The song shifts, the tempo quickening, and I turn under the spray so my side profile faces him now. The glass is fogged, but not enough to hide the lines of my body. I drag my fingers slowly through my hair, wringing the water out.
I wonder if he knows that I know. I wonder if he’s waiting for me to acknowledge him, to give him permission.
The thought makes my pulse climb higher than the music.
I give him more, a slow bend forward, the arch of my spine accentuated, steam curling up around my calves.
If he wants to watch, he can have the full show.
But if he wants to touch, he’s going to have to come and take.
I reach for the soap, the slick bar warm from the steam, and work it into my palms. I start at my collarbone, spreading the suds over my chest in slow, lazy circles. The scent mixes with the hot rush of water and the faint metallic tang of knowing I’m being watched. My hands skim down over the swell of my breasts, fingers sliding over slippery skin, the soapy foam following in their wake.
I take my time. One arm raised as I smooth suds down the length of it, turning my wrist just enough to expose the inside of my arm. Then I switch to the other, my eyes still closed like I’m lost entirely to the song, though every cell in my body is tuned to the man in the doorway.
The music pulses faster. My hands drift lower. I move like I have all the time in the world, like I’m not waiting for him to step forward and close the space between us.
The glass is fogged enough to blur, but not enough to hide. He can see the outline of me. The slow, deliberatepace that saysthis isn’t about getting clean—it’s about you standing there watching me do it.
I soap my thighs next, fingers sliding in long, deliberate strokes, and let one knee shift outward, a lazy sway to the rhythm. I know exactly what the movement suggests. I know exactly what he’ll imagine if I keep doing it.
I’m still facing forward, but I sense him—solid, unmoving, leaning against the doorframe like he owns not just the doorway, not just the room, but the air I’m breathing.
I rinse slowly, letting the water take its time carrying the suds away. The steam is thick now, curling around my body like silk, blurring edges, hiding nothing.
Finally, I turn my head. Just enough. Through the swirling steam, through the fogged glass, I find him. Broad shoulders in a dark shirt. Hands in his pockets. Watching like he’s been there forever, like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be than silently devouring me with his gaze.
I don’t stop moving. If anything, I make it slower, letting him know without words that I see him, I know what he’s doing and I’m not about to give him the satisfaction of ending the show early.
I don’t speak. The music’s too loud, the water too hot, and the game far too sweet to ruin with words.
Chapter 12: Luca
She thinks I've been here a few seconds. She's wrong.
I've been standing in this doorway long enough to watch her soap every inch of herself like she's auditioning for my patience. Long enough to hear the way she hums along with the music, off-key, like she's not naked and wet and making me want to drag her out by her hair.
She's dancing.
Arms raised, eyes closed, head tipped back into the spray like she owns every drop of water. Hips rolling lazily in time with the beat. The glass is fogged but not enough to hide the way she moves, as if no one could possibly be watching.
And she's smiling. Not the polite bride smile she gives in public. This one's wicked. Self-satisfied. Like she knows exactly what she's doing to me.
She turns under the spray, hands sliding over her hair, down her throat, across her breasts, so slow it could be a dare. My mouth goes dry. Steam rolls over her skin, softening every line until she looks like sin blurred at the edges. But there's nothing soft about the way she's moving. Slow, deliberate, baiting me.
She wants me to see every inch of what's mine and pretend I'm going to let her get away with it.
Her head turns, just a fraction. Those eyes find me through the haze. No surprise in them. No startle. Just that little smile, like she's the one in control here.
I slide my hands out of my pockets, slow. Step into the steam. The music's pounding, some German noise she probably thinks will drown out the sound of me coming closer. It doesn't. She feels me behind her. I see it in the way her breath catches, in the way her hands pause mid-rinse like she's deciding whether to keep playing this game or fold.
I'm close enough now to see the drops clinging to her lashes, close enough that the heat from the shower is mixing with the heat coming off my skin. I lean one hand on the glass, tilt my head.
"You done putting on your little show?" I'm deciding between kissing her and ruining her for the rest of the day. "Or you planning to keep making me stand here like a prick in the rain while you dance for me?"
Her smile widens just a little, and fuck if that doesn't make my cock throb.
"You like having an audience?" I murmur. I step closer without asking. My suit jacket's already gone, my tie hanging loose around my neck. The heat swallows me whole. The water hits my shirt, soaking it fast, but I don't care. My hand finds her jaw, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth, tilting her head up until those eyes are locked on mine. "Good thing you've got one who doesn't clap. I take payment a different way."
