I sink onto his lap, the warm water sloshing around us. Our bodies press together, his hard length trapped between my stomach and his. He claims my mouth in a kiss that's all tongue and heat, tasting of mint and me. The sweet smell of vanilla and lavender wraps around us like a blanket. His hands are everywhere, big and rough, groping my waist, squeezing the plump flesh of my ass underwater, palming my breasts with a possessiveness that makes me moan into his mouth.
"That's it," he growls against my lips. "Let me hear you."
He grinds himself against my belly, the thick ridge of his cock rubbing a damp, insistent line from my navel down to my mound. I reach between our bodies, my fingers wrapping around him, feeling the velvety skin over that rigid heat. I stroke him, my fist sliding up and down, the water making the motion slick. He groans, breaking the kiss to bury his face in my neck, sucking a mark that I know will bruise.
His mouth travels lower, leaving a wet trail over my collarbone. He nuzzles the water-slicked swell of my breast, his tongue flicking out to catch a droplet before he takes my nipple into his hot mouth. He sucks hard, the piercing adding a sharp, bright edge to the sensation. His teeth graze the metal, and I cry out, my back arching, pushing more of my heavy tit into his mouth.
"Fuck, these tits," he mutters, switching to the other, giving it the same rough worship. His hand squeezes the one he just abandoned, his thumb rubbing the wet, puckered nipple. "So fucking perfect. Made for my hands. For my mouth."
He pulls back, his eyes meeting mine in the candlelit haze. His expression is intense, but a shadow passes through it. His hands still on my hips, holding me tight against him.
"Ethan's back home," he says, his voice low, almost lost in the soft lap of water.
I blink, my arousal-stunned brain trying to process. "Your son?"
He nods, his jaw tight. His thumbs stroke my hip bones, a soothing rhythm that feels at odds with the tension in his shoulders. "Yeah. Turns out he's… he came out. He's dating a boy."
I stare at him, the words not quite landing. His son is gay. And Mr. Callahan is… what? Upset? My mind, fuzzy with lust, stumbles. But… you're cheating on your wife with me. You tease me, you film me, you propose to me in a dirty game. What morals are those?
The confusion must show on my face. He sees it, and his mouth twists into a bitter, humorless smile. He leans in, his lips brushing my ear. "I know what you're thinking, sweetie. Don't." His hand slides from my hip, down through the water, his fingers finding my slick, swollen folds. He presses the pad of his thumb against my clit. "Just don't."
He circles that throbbing nub, and all thought of his son, of morals, of anything but the hot, coiling tightness in my belly vanishes. I whimper, my head falling forward onto his shoulder.
"he's working from home for the next month," he murmurs, his voice a dark rumble against my skin as his fingers work me. "To… sort things out with him. Make him see sense." He slips one finger inside me, then a second, curling them deep. My inner walls clench around him instantly. "But don't you worry, sweetie. This won't affect our time. Not one fucking bit."
He kisses me again, a deep, claiming kiss that tastes like possession and sin. He scissors his fingers inside me, stretching me, and I rock my hips, fucking myself on his hand. He adds a third finger, and the delicious, filling stretch makes me gasp.
"Ride them," he commands, his voice thick. "Ride my fucking fingers like you mean it, Mia."
I obey, lifting myself on my knees in the water and sinking back down, impaling myself on his thrusting hand. The water sloshes wildly, splashing over the rim of the tub. He watches me, his eyes dark pits of hunger, his other hand gripping my ass, guiding my rhythm.
"So greedy," he pants. "Taking three of my fingers like it's nothing. Such a hungry, meaty little cunt."
He pulls his fingers out with a wet, filthy sound. I almost sob at the loss. He grips my hips and lifts me, setting me on the edge of the bathtub, my ass on the cold porcelain rim. "Spread your legs. Show me."
I blush, the air cool on my wet skin, but I do it. I let my thighs fall open, exposing everything to him in the flickering candlelight. He sits in the tub, between my legs, his face level with my cunt..
He runs his hands over my body, groping my tits, pinching my nipples hard, squeezing my waist, my belly, my thick thighs. His touch is rough, possessive, leaving faint red marks on my skin.
"Look at this fucking pussy," he breathes, his voice full of awe and dark lust. He spreads my outer lips with his thumbs, exposing the slick, puffy pink flesh within. My inner lips are dark, glistening, swollen with blood, dangling slightly. My clit is a hard, throbbing pearl, almost purple with need. "So fucking swollen. So fucking wet for me. It's dripping, sweetie."
He leans forward and kisses it. Not a lick, but a full, open-mouthed, messy kiss, his tongue pushing between my folds. I jolt, a sharp cry tearing from my throat. He pulls back, grinning up at me with wet lips. "Mine."
He reaches up and grabs the handheld showerhead from its hook. He turns the dial. The gentle spray turns into a sharp, focused, stinging jet. My eyes widen.
"Look at me," he orders, his voice dropping to a nasty, thrilling whisper. "And when it hits that needy little clit, I want to hear you. I want to hear you moan for me."
He aims the jet.
The second the cold, hard stream of water hits my swollen clit, I scream. It's a shock—cold, intense, unbearably direct. The pressure is perfect, brutal, right on the most sensitive part of me. My back arches violently, my hands fly to the edge of the tub, gripping for dear life. A ragged, broken moan is ripped from my chest.
"Uncle, please!" I beg, the old, forbidden title slipping out in my delirium.
His eyes flash. He adjusts the aim, the jet dancing over my clit, making my entire body tremble. "What did you call me?" he says, his voice dangerously soft.
"I'm sorry, I—"
"Try again, sweetie. Who am I?"
The water is relentless, the sensation building from a sharp sting into a deep, throbbing vibration. Pleasure, edged with pain, coils tight in my core. "Husband," I gasp out, the word feeling foreign and right. "You're my… husband-to-be."
"That's right," he purrs, holding the spray steady. "Now moan for your husband."
I do. I moan, loud and long and shameless, my cries echoing off the bathroom tiles. The pressure is too much, it's everywhere, it's inside me. My hips buck uncontrollably. I can feel it, the orgasm building like a tsunami, unstoppable.
"Fuck, yes, just like that, come on my fucking hand, come from the water, you dirty girl," he urges, his free hand coming down to spread me wider, his thumb rubbing frantic circles just below the jet.
The climax detonates. It's not a wave; it's a shattering. My vision whites out. My cunt pulses, clenching around nothing, gushing a hot flood of release that mixes with the water streaming down my thighs. I scream his name, my body shaking violently, my toes curling.
He turns off the water. The sudden silence is deafening, broken only by my ragged sobs for air. He watches me for a second, my splayed, trembling form, my pussy glistening and twitching in the aftermath. Then he drops the showerhead and leans in.
He doesn't kiss me. He devours me. His mouth latches onto my soaked, sensitive flesh, his tongue lapping up my juices, fucking into my hole, sucking my swollen lips into his mouth. He groans, the sound vibrating through my entire body.
"Taste yourself," he orders, pulling back. He gathers my wetness on his fingers and smears it over my lower lips, over my clit. "Taste how fucking sweet you are. How fucking perfect."
He leans in again, his tongue finding my clit, sucking it gently, then with more pressure. He pulls one of my long, puffy inner lips between his teeth, tugging it gently, making me whimper. "So fucking meaty," he murmurs against my flesh, his breath hot. "I could eat this cunt for hours. It's a fucking feast."
He plunges two fingers back inside me, curling them ruthlessly, fucking me hard and fast. The overstimulation is agonizing, exquisite. I'm so sensitive every stroke is a lightning bolt. He adds a third finger, stretching me wide, his palm grinding against my clit.
"Look at the mess you're making," he snarls, his fingers moving with a wet, squelching rhythm. "Dripping all over my hand. All over the floor. You're a fucking fountain, Mia. A nasty, perfect, little fuck-toy."
He leans down and sucks my clit into his mouth again, his tongue fluttering against it while his fingers pump in and out. Another orgasm, smaller but no less intense, rips through me. I convulse, my juices gushing over his hand. He drinks it, licking and sucking until I'm a trembling, sobbing wreck.
Finally, he pulls back. He stands, his knees popping, and grabs two big, fluffy towels. He wraps one around my shoulders, bundling me up, and uses the other to dry himself quickly. He blows out the candles, plunging the bathroom into near-darkness, lit only by the hallway light.
He scoops me up, towel and all, and carries me to the bedroom. He lays me on the bed, the comforter cool against my back. He climbs over me, his body a heavy, welcome weight. He kisses me, deep and claiming, tasting of my own sweetness. He yanks the damp towel from under me, tosses his aside.
His hands are on me again, kneading my breasts, pinching my nipples, sliding down my belly. "My good girl," he breathes against my mouth. "My filthy, perfect, plump fiancée."