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The right one slides down her throat, across her collarbone, and finds her breast. I cup it first. Just hold it in my palm, feelin' the weight and warmth of it. Then my thumb drags slow across the nipple.

She shudders and it peaks up between my fingertips.

I do it again.

Then I pinch.

She breaks the kiss on a gasp—her whole chest rockin' forward into my hand—and I use that moment to get my mouth on her jaw, her neck, the soft place below her ear, while my fingers twist that nipple slow, and deliberate, and mean.

She grabs my forearm. Not to stop me. Just to hold onto somethin'.

My other hand moves while she's distracted. Down her stomach. Into the space between her thighs. She's still slick from before. Still warm. Still wound up like a watch that never got let all the way down.

Two fingers press through her and she makes a sound that bounces off every tile in this shower.

"Legion—"

"Yeah." I'm not answerin' a question. Just affirmin' what's happenin'.

I work her slow. The same deliberateness she used on me. The same patience. My fingers curl on the pull-back, and she rolls her hips into my hand and grabs my arm harder. The steam's built back up thick around us, and every breath I take is hot, and wet, and full of her.

I kiss her again. Deep. My fingers pushin' into her while my other hand twists her nipple and she makes these broken little sounds directly into my mouth that do somethin' permanent to me.

I get her up to the edge of somethin'. I can feel it. The way her body changes when she's close—the tightenin', the stillness right before the movement, like a held breath.

Then I stop.

She makes a noise that's half fury and half desperation, her hips still rollin' forward against nothin', lookin' for my hand.

I take her by the waist instead.

"Sit down."

She stares at me with those eyes—dark now, blown wide, breathin' hard.

"Sit down, Savannah."

She sits on the teak bench. I lower myself onto my knees in front of her.

My hands find her inner thighs and spread them open—slow, deliberate, givin' her every second of the reveal—and she lets me. She lets me look at her, all pink and slick and open, with the water runnin' down the walls around us and the steam so thick it softens every edge.

I look up at her face.

She's already watchin' me. Eyes half-closed, lips parted, one hand restin' loose on the bench beside her thigh like she already knows she's gonna need somethin' to grip.

I keep my eyes on hers as I lower my head.

The first drag of my tongue through her folds and she grabs the back of my head with both hands.

Not guidin'. Just holdin'. Like she's afraid I'll stop.

I won't stop.

She tastes like salt, and want, and somethin' underneath that I got no word for—somethin' that's just her, just Savannah, the specific taste of this specific woman that I've been carryin' around in my memory for years in a cell on a concrete bunk at Whitefall when I had nothin' else. I press my tongue flat against her clit and drag slow, and she makes a sound that echoes off every tile in this shower and her thighs slam shut around my head.

I let 'em.

I work her from inside that grip, her legs clenchin' tighter every time I do somethin' she likes, which is every time I do anythin' at all. I suck her clit into my mouth and she yanks my hair so hard my eyes water and I groan against her and feel her whole body jerk in response.