I turned the soap in my hand until the lather finally took — thick, grey-white, sliding between my fingers.
She stayed under the spray with her head tipped back and her eyes half-closed, the water sheeting off her face and throat and over the pale wet slopes of her breasts in continuous bright lines that caught on her tight nipples and dripped.
I started at her shoulders.
The soap ran under my palms in thin grey-white trails. Her skin was hotter than the water — smooth, tight over the muscle at first, then softer as I worked down the upper arms, the flesh giving under the pressure of my hands.
She breathed in when my hands first properly closed on her and didn't breathe out again for a second too long. Her ribs stayed expanded against me.
That's it.
That's it.
Don't react. Don't—
