Only then did I finally push my own soaked pants down far enough. The first slow slide inside her made both of us groan. She was burning hot and impossibly tight. I had to stop halfway and breathe, forehead resting against hers, or I was going to finish embarrassingly fast. My hands stroked up and down her sides, soothing, grounding both of us.
“You feel-” I bit the rest of the sentence off. Compliments would only make her more unbearable later, but the truth sat heavy on my tongue anyway.
Xu laughed weakly against my neck. The sound was soft and tired and almost fond. “Speechless? That is new.”
“Keep talking and I will make sure you cannot walk tomorrow.”
“You are already trying.”
I thrust the rest of the way in just to wipe the smirk off her face. It worked. Her mouth fell open on a silent moan. I set a steady rhythm, deep and deliberate, watching every expression that crossed her face. The way her brows drew together. The way her lips trembled. The way she still tried to look annoyed even while she clung to me like she never wanted to let go. Every time I pushed in I felt her flutter around me. Every time I pulled back she made a small protesting sound that went straight to my chest.
Water continued to pour over us, but I barely noticed. All I could focus on was the heat of her, the way her fingers dug into my shoulders, the soft broken noises she kept trying to swallow. I kissed her again, slower this time, pouring every unsaid thing into it. She kissed back with the same desperate edge.
When I finally bit down properly on the junction of her neck and shoulder, marking her, Xu came again with a broken little sob. Her body went limp in my arms. The second orgasm pulled me over the edge with her. I buried myself deep and stayed there, breathing hard, while the water continued to pour over both of us. My lips stayed pressed to the fresh mark, gentling the sting with soft kisses.
Xu’s head dropped onto my shoulder. Her eyes were closed. Her breathing evened out too quickly.
She had passed out.
For a moment I just held her, heart still racing, mark already blooming dark on her skin. Then practical thoughts returned.
I turned off the water with one hand, kept her steady with the other, and carefully stepped out of the shower. Drying an unconscious person was a lot less glamorous than the stories made it seem. I wrapped her in the biggest towel we owned, patted her down as gently as I could, lingering a little longer than necessary on her shoulders and arms. I found one of her soft sleep shirts. Getting it onto her limp body took longer than I wanted to admit and involved more accidental groping than I would ever confess to. I muttered apologies to her sleeping face the entire time.
Once she was dressed I lifted her properly. She was lighter than she looked. I carried her out of the steamy bathroom, through the quiet living room, and into the bedroom we still had not figured out how to share.
I laid her down on the left side of the bed, the one she had claimed two nights ago. Her hair was still damp. The mark on her neck looked dark against her skin. I pulled the blanket up to her shoulders and stood there longer than necessary, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest. My fingers brushed a strand of hair away from her cheek without thinking.
“You are going to kill me for this tomorrow,” I told her sleeping face.
She did not answer.
I went back to the bathroom, changed into dry clothes, and returned to the bed. For the first time since we moved in, I did not argue about sides. I simply lay down beside her, close enough to feel her warmth, and let myself stay. One of my hands rested lightly over hers under the blanket. I told myself it was only to make sure she did not get cold.
I fell asleep listening to her breathe.