His body braced, a quick ripple of muscle and animal instinct.
"Darling." His voice purred out. "My wife could come home any minute."
"Screw her."
He laughed. "Happy to," he said, and turning had her pressed against the wet tiles.
"Raise water temp to one-oh-one degrees."
"Too hot," he muttered against her mouth as the spray heated, steamed.
"I want it hot." In a quick move, she reversed their positions, clamped her teeth over his jaw. "I want you hot."
She was already wet, and she was randy. Her hands and mouth busy on him, taking him over in a kind of cheerful aggression. He no longer heard the brisk, clipped voice on-screen that detailed the latest stock reports, the market projections. Only the hiss of spray and the beat of his own blood.
He could want her, every minute of every day. Was certain he would go on wanting her after he was dead and gone. She was the pulse, the reason, the breath.
When he caught her dripping hair in his hand, yanked her head up so his mouth could fuse to hers, it was like feeding a hunger that was never, ever quite sated.
She felt it from him, the edge of that violent appetite he so often masked in elegance and style and patience. When she tasted it, it made her crave the primitive, made her lust for the danger of letting the animal inside them both spring loose to feed.
With him she could be tender, where there had never been tenderness. And with him she could be brutal, without fear.
"Now. Now, now, now! Inside me."
He gripped her hips, fingers sliding over slick, wet skin until they dug in. Her breath caught when he shoved her back against the tiles, then released on a cry when he rammed himself into her.
Her body plunged through the first vicious orgasm, then raced for more.
Her eyes locked with his. She could see herself there, swimming in, drowning in that vivid blue. Trusting his strength, she wrapped her legs around his waist to take more of him.
Steam billowed, thin mists. Water streamed, hot rain. He drove himself hard and deep, watching, always watching that shocked pleasure radiate over her face. He could see her rising to peak again, the way her eyes blurred, the gilded brown of them deepening an instant before they went blind, an instant before her body gathered, then shuddered.
She clamped around him, a hot, wet fist, and nearly dragged him over with her.
"Take more." His voice was ragged, his lungs burning. "Take more, and more, until you come screaming for me."
She could hear the sharp, rhythmic slap of flesh against flesh, of flesh against tile, and could taste when his mouth crushed down on hers again the outrageous need in him. And as he thrust into her, as pleasure and pain and madness merged into one searing mass inside her, she heard herself scream.
Limp as rags, still tangled together, they slid down to the floor of the shower.
"Christ Jesus," he managed.
"Let's just stay here for an hour or two. We probably won't drown." Her head dropped onto his shoulder like a stone.
"We might, as I think we're lying on the drains." But he made no effort to move.
She turned her head so the spray beat down on her face. "But it feels good."
He cupped her breast. "God knows."
"Where the hell is everybody?"
"I think we're right here." Her nipples were still hard, still hot, and inspired him to roll over enough to taste.
She blinked water out of her eyes. "You've got to be kidding."
"I don't believe I will be if you give me a few minutes here. Less if the water wasn't so bloody hot."