About the Shower
The art of not inviting him in yet
Steam curled in soft ribbons around her as Storm hooked a finger beneath the hem of her oversized T-shirt, lifting the cotton over her head and letting it fall to the tiles.
Behind the glass, the water rushed, hot and waiting. Storm stepped in, closing herself inside the clear cocoon.
The first splash traced her collarbone, then dripped down in shining lines that invited a slow chase of fingertips.
The bathroom mirror fogged, hiding the faint blush on her cheeks while she twisted the cap off a brand-new bottle of shower gel. The scent hit first—juicy raspberries, sun-warm and a little wild. Tiny crimson beads floated in the gel like trapped summer seeds. She tipped a dollop into her palm, letting the little grains sparkle before the steam touched them.
She pressed the gel to her skin, and the seed-sized grains rolled across the curve of her shoulder, then lower, scrubbing, waking.
She imagined him watching—imagined how he’d lean forward, knuckles tight on the edge of his seat, trying to decide whether the mist was hiding too much or not enough.
She arched her back beneath the spray, letting the berry sweetness and the heat of the water become something dangerously addictive. Suds clung to her like satin, then slipped away, showing damp skin that felt newly made.
Each rinse left her wanting the next touch, the next impossible promise.
When she finally turned off the tap, the world felt quiet, complicit. She wrapped a towel high around her chest, her pulse still beating softly in her ears. A single ribbon of raspberry-scented foam curled toward the drain, the only witness to how close she’d come to inviting him inside.
Not yet, she thought, drawing the towel tighter with a wicked smile.
Let him want. Let him ache.
Storm stepped out of the shower, leaving the door open just enough, and the scent of raspberries drifted into the hall like a dare.
— K