"Oh," Sierra whispered, eyes huge. "This is…"

"Obscene," he finished for her. "Wait till you see the rest."

"Phei, this bathroom is bigger than mine a home. Not fair."

"Probably."

"Is that a pool?"

He carried her toward the sunken soaking tub—eight feet of marble-clad decadence, deep enough to drown in pleasure. The touchscreen panel glowed invitingly.

"Technically a Japanese-style ofuro. Also converts to ice plunge." He shifted her higher in his arms, letting her slick thighs slide deliberately along his skin. "But we're not doing recovery today."

He tapped the panel. Water thundered to life from hidden jets, steam curling up in fragrant clouds as the temperature climbed to just above body heat—perfect for long soaks.

Sierra stared, still cradled like something precious and breakable. "You're going to put me in there?"

"I'm going to put us in there." His voice dropped, rough with promise. "And then I'm going to wash every inch of you. Slowly. Especially the parts still full of me."

Her breath hitched hard enough he felt it against his neck. "Oh."

Phei stepped to the marble edge and set her down gently, letting her legs dangle into the rising water.

The sheet clung loosely now, slipping off one shoulder entirely, baring the upper swell of one heavy, marked breast—nipples still dark and puffy from his teeth, little bruises ringing the areolas like jewelry.

"Can you hold yourself up while I get naked?"

Sierra nodded, fingers curling tight around the edge, eyes already glued to him.

How hungry, hehe~

He stripped without ceremony—shirt peeled off and tossed aside, revealing the new ridges of muscle glistening with sweat; shorts shoved down, briefs following.

His cock sprang free, already half-hard and rising fast, thick and veined and still faintly shiny from her earlier that morning. A single bead of pre-come pearled at the slit just from the way she was staring—hungry, helpless, royal throat working as she swallowed.

"I thought we were taking a bath," she said, voice slightly strangled, eyes locked on the heavy sway of his cock as it bobbed inches from her bare thigh.

"We are."

"That doesn't look like bath-taking equipment."

"He has his own agenda," Phei said dryly, glancing down at the thick, half-hard length already glistening at the tip again. "And right now his agenda is remembering how you screamed my name when I bottomed out at 4 a.m."

The pool was filled now, water steaming gently, amber lighting dancing across the surface like liquid gold.

Phei stepped in first—the heat swallowing him to the waist, loosening every knot in his muscles, making his cock twitch harder under the surface—and then turned to face her.

Sierra sat on the edge, the sheet finally surrendered to gravity and abandoned on the marble, naked in the merciless morning light.

God, she is devastating.

Not the sharp, weaponized beauty she wielded like a blade at school. This was rawer, softer, devastatingly real.

Steam kissed her skin rose-gold, her dark hair a wild cascade over shoulders still marked by his mouth. Her breasts—heavy, perfect teardrops, nipples dark and swollen from hours of his teeth and tongue—rose and fell with shallow breaths.

The evidence of their night was painted everywhere: finger-shaped bruises blooming on her hips, a perfect bite mark on her collarbone, faint red lines down her back where his nails had raked, and lower—Christ—between her thighs the delicate skin was flushed deep pink, her cunt lips still puffy and slick, a faint trace of his come dried on the inside of one thigh like a brand.

"Come here," he said, voice rough, holding out both hands.

She reached for him without hesitation, and he lifted her from the edge like she weighed nothing, lowering her slowly—agonizingly slowly—into the water.

The sound she made—a broken moan that belongs in a porn clip, not a penthouse bathroom—shot straight to his balls and made his cock jump against her ass as she slid down his front.

"Oh god," she gasped, sinking deeper until the water lapped at her collarbones. "Oh god, that feels—"

"Good?"

"Like heaven on my ruined pussy," she finished on a shudder, thighs instinctively parting around his hips before she caught herself.

"I didn't realize how sore I was until—fuck, yes, right there."

She let her head fall back, eyes fluttering shut, body melting in the heat. Her hair fanned out across the water like spilled ink, nipples breaking the surface like dark cherries begging to be tasted again.

Phei guided her to the wide built-in bench, settling her there so the water cradled her up to those perfect tits. Then he reached for the body wash on the recessed shelf—something ridiculously expensive that smelled like cedar and sin—and poured a generous pool into his palm.

"What are you doing?" Sierra asked, eyes still closed, voice lazy with pleasure.

"Washing you. Every. Single. Inch." He let the promise hang in the steam. "Especially the parts still dripping with me."

Her eyes snapped open, pupils blown wide. "You don't have to—"

"I want to." His voice dropped to that low growl that had made her beg last night. "Now sit still, princess, and let me take care of what's mine."

He started with her shoulders.

His hands moved slow, deliberate, possessive—working the lather into her skin with firm, reverent pressure.

She was impossibly soft, like warm satin over steel, and every glide of his palms drew a new shiver from her. Down the elegant column of her neck, thumbs pressing gently into the knots there until she moaned again—quieter this time, but no less wrecked.

"That's nice," she whispered.

"Just nice?"

"Obscenely nice. Exceptionally nice. Don't you dare stop."

He didn't.

Down her arms, lifting each one from the water to soap from shoulder to wrist to fingertips—lingering on the faint bruises circling her wrists where he'd pinned her down and fucked her through her fifth orgasm.

Her fingers curled around his instinctively, squeezing, holding on like she was afraid he'd vanish.

Then back to her shoulders, down the graceful curve of her spine. She leaned forward without being asked, forehead dropping to rest against his chest, breath hot against his skin as she gave him full access.

He traced every vertebra with soapy hands, thumbs digging into the wings of her shoulder blades, palms sliding lower—over the dimples above her ass, teasing the cleft just enough to make her hips jerk forward and grind her swollen clit against his thigh.

Goosebumps exploded across her skin despite the heat, nipples tightening to painful points that grazed his chest with every breath.

"Phei," she breathed, voice trembling. "If you keep touching me like that—"

"What?" He leaned down, lips brushing her ear. "You'll come again without me even inside you? You'll soak this fancy pool with another load of princess cunt-juice while I wash my come out of you?"

She whimpered—actually whimpered—and pressed her face harder into his chest.

"Keep going," she pleaded against his skin. "Please don't stop."

So he didn't.

His hands slid around to her front now, soaping the soft plane of her stomach, thumbs brushing just beneath the swell of her breasts—teasing, promising, making her arch into the touch like a cat in heat.

When his palms finally—finally—cupped those heavy, perfect tits, lifting and massaging the lather into them with slow, worshipful strokes, Sierra's head fell back again and the moan she let out was pure, unfiltered surrender.

"Fuck," she gasped. "Your hands were made for this."

"No," he murmured, rolling her nipples gently between slick fingers until she jolted. "They were made for you."

And as the steam rose around them and the water lapped at their skin, Phei kept washing her—slowly, thoroughly, relentlessly—until every inch of her body was clean, trembling, and desperately ready to be dirtied all over again.

She's so responsive. Every single touch matters to her—like she's been wired straight into his nervous system.

His hands moved to her sides, long slow strokes up and down her ribcage, thumbs tracing the delicate cage of bone beneath that impossibly soft, flushed skin.

She made a small, helpless sound—half-moan, half-whimper, the kind of noise that should be illegal in a bathroom this expensive with minors or... one—and pressed closer, tits sliding slick against his chest.

"Phei…"

"Shh. Let me take care of you."

He really did mean to keep it clinical. Meant to be the good guy—wash her gently, let her poor abused body recover from the Olympic-level fucking he'd subjected it to all night.

He lasted maybe forty-five seconds. Absolute personal record for self-control, frankly.

His hands were on her flat stomach now, tracing lazy, soapy circles, and she was so warm, so pliant, skin like heated silk under his palms. The water lapped at them in soft, rhythmic waves.

Steam curled around their bodies like it was trying to get in on the action.

And she kept making those sounds—those quiet, breathy little gasps that went straight to his cock like she had a direct line to his balls.

His lips found the slope of her shoulder. Just a brush. Just a whisper of mouth on wet skin.

She shivered hard enough that her nipples dragged across his chest and his cock throbbed underwater.

Fuck it.

He kissed her properly then—slow, open-mouthed along the curve where neck met shoulder, tasting cedar soap and pure Sierra. His hands kept moving, soaping her hips, her waist, but his mouth had declared independence. Kissing up the column of her throat.

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