Under the steam rain

Come with me to the bathroom, it’s practically ready. I know the lust is starting to permeate the room, simply because we have this chance to examine each other. The looks we’ve been exchanging all through dinner left no room for doubt—this night wasn’t going to end with a polite handshake. You, in that black dress clinging to your curves like a desperate lover, and me, with a desire so palpable it was clouding my usually impeccable businessman’s composure.

The water begins to fall on your body, and I watch as the first droplets trace silver paths on your skin. The heat of the Madrid night contrasts with the coolness of the liquid spilling over us, creating a symphony of sensations that makes my skin prickle. The steam flooding the room is already starting to relax muscles and fade the day’s fatigue, but it intensifies another kind of tension—that electricity jumping between our bodies, separated by mere centimeters.

In an act of intimacy and sensuality, I involve the soap, which also serves as my pretext to get closer to your monumental body. The bar of sandalwood and vanilla slides between my hands before I begin my pilgrimage across your particular geography. I travel its entirety, exploring every corner with curiosity. I start with your shoulders, where tension accumulates after long hours of work, and my fingers work that rigidity until it turns into submission. I descend your back, feeling under my palms the arch of your spine offered to me like an open secret.

I memorize the layout of your pores and then I wash away the soapy layer with a suggestive massage that simultaneously awakens the dormant lust in you. My hands stop at the base of your neck, where your pulse beats rapidly—a little caged bird betraying what your serene face tries to hide. When I reach your waist, I feel you hold your breath, and I smile noticing your skin prickling under my touch. You are a poem of flesh and bone, and I try to decipher you with my hands as if they were urgent verses.

Your turn arrives, and still timid, you repeat the action. You take the soap with fingers that tremble slightly, and I watch as your gaze concentrates on the task as if you fear hurting me. I notice a certain nervousness as you explore the more virile parts of my body, but desire takes over during the final massage where you enjoy my flesh. Your hands, softer than I imagined, finally dare to feel my chest, sensing the accelerated heartbeat that betrays my usually serene composure. When you bend down to soap my legs, your hair brushes my thigh and I contain a moan.

Suddenly you turn, giving me your back. The suggestive movement of your hips awakens my length, and the rest of the water covering us now begins to stimulate the skin. It’s like a million hands stimulating every millimeter, and it’s the perfect excuse to set the whole place on fire. The water runs between your buttocks and I can’t help but place my hands on that waist that seems designed to be gripped with desire.

I turn you towards me and finally our lips meet in a kiss that tastes of red wine and promises. My hands bury themselves in your wet hair while my tongue explores your mouth with the urgency of someone afraid of waking from this dream. I feel your nipples harden against my chest, and under the water, my erection presses against your abdomen like a reminder of what we both desire.

Under the constant rain of the shower, my lips descend your neck, nibbling that soft skin that tastes of jasmine and woman. When I take your breasts in my hands, I feel you arch your back towards me, offering yourself completely. My mouth closes around a nipple and you moan, a guttural sound mixing with the murmur of the water. I savor this part of you as if it were the most exquisite delicacy, alternating between suction and the caress of my tongue until your legs buckle.

I take you against the cold tiled wall, a contrast to the heat of our bodies. The steam envelops us like a third lover, a witness to this intimacy stolen from time. My fingers travel down your abdomen, tracing wet circles until I find that mound of Venus hiding all your secrets. I open you delicately, feeling how wet you are—so wet that the shower water can’t disguise your natural moisture.

When I slide two fingers inside you, a gasp escaping your lips confirms what I already knew—tonight we will be lovers, with no past or future, only this eternal present under the artificial rain. My fingers move inside you with the rhythm your body dictates, while my thumb caresses that clitoris swollen with desire. Your hands grip my shoulders, your nails dig into my skin, and that small sting of pain excites me even more.

“I want to hear you,” I whisper against your ear as I increase the pace. “I want to hear how pleasure shatters you into a thousand pieces.”

And so it happens. Your orgasm arrives like a torrent, shaking your body against me as you scream my name mixed with curses I didn’t know you knew. I hold you as you tremble, kissing your forehead and your closed eyelids, savoring your momentary vulnerability.

But this is only the beginning. Without giving you time to recover, I turn you back against the wall and lift one of your legs. The penetration is one deep, single movement that makes us moan in unison. You are so tight around me that I feel every one of your inner folds, every contraction still echoing your recent climax.

The rhythm we set is wild and primal. My hips crash against your buttocks with a wet sound mixing with the falling water. I grip your hips firmly, marking you with my fingers, wanting to leave the memory of this night on your skin. Every thrust is deeper than the last, and your moans become higher, more urgent.

“Harder,” you plead, and I obey, fucking you with a strength I didn’t know I had, with a desire I’d been accumulating for weeks since that first glance in the restaurant.

The steam has completely taken over the bathroom, wrapping us in a cloud that blurs the outlines of our bodies. Only the sensations exist: the heat of the water, the coldness of the tiles against your back, the friction of our wet skin, the sound of our bodies meeting again and again.

I feel my orgasm approaching like an unstoppable wave, but I want to take you with me. My hand finds your clitoris again and massages it in precise circles as my thrusts become faster, deeper. You scream my name when the second orgasm rips through you, and that intense vaginal contraction is my undoing. I collapse over you, emptying myself inside you with animalistic grunts I wouldn’t recognize as my own.

We stay like that for several minutes, panting, leaning against the wall as the water cleanses us of our shared sins. My lips find yours in a tender kiss, very different from the previous urgency.

“The water’s getting cold,” you murmur against my mouth.

“I know,” I reply, caressing your face. “But the fire between us has just begun.”

And so it was. That night we discovered that sometimes, one-night lovers can ignite flames that last much longer than expected.