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Sage groaned gently pressing her head against the tile.
She turned her face up into the spray and let it wash over her and thought about that for a second. About babies. About the specific image of Cal holding something small and fragile with those enormous careful hands, the same hands that had smoothed her hair in the dark and held her steady on the porch and cooked her food so he could catch her smile.
Her heart did something enormous and permanent.
She thought about this morning. About waking up with the sun already risen, her cheek against bare skin (not drooling!!), the slow warm realization of where she was — draped across Bear's chest like she lived there, his arm heavy and steady across her back, his heartbeat under her ear, steady as something ancient. She'd stayed still for a long time. Longer than she should have. She'd watched his chest rise and fall and felt his heartbeat and thought oh no, and also oh yes, and also, please don't let this end.
Fuck it.
She reached for the panel before she lost her nerve. Her fingers hovered over the settings.
Pulse.
She pressed it and almost chickened out when she felt that jet spray in between her legs at that perfect angle on that spot that she had always hated.
She thought about Cal’s hands. About the way he looked at her when she stretched, the careful discipline of his eyes moving away, the single moment before they did where she'd seen something raw and real and wanting. About the weight of him in the hallway, the sheer physical fact of him, the way her whole nervous system had gone haywire when he'd said princess in that particular register—
She moved her hips slightly.
The water shifted.
"Oh…fuck…yes…Cal," she gasped.
And then bit her lip to stay quiet.
She closed her eyes. Imagined him beneath her. Holding her open so gently as those rough strong hands pulled her thick hips closer. As he laid her on her back and spread her legs wide and she watched him with hungry eyes as his tongue tasted her wetness again…and again…and again. As he sucked her core with that same infuriatingly patient loving strength—
Her breath caught. Her legs flexed. Her traitorous hand reached up and pulled her taut pebbled nipple as she whispered his name.
And then, one hand pressed flat against the tile, Sage Thompson had the first orgasm of her life.
Oh! Ohhh…this feels…so…fuck!…is…is that me moaning? Stop moaning…oh…shit…I think my legs are about to give out.
Her hips shifted again as she tried to catch her breath, thankful that she could pretend the wet rivulets running down her thighs were just shower water and not her own dewy release.
She bit her lip again and was unsurprised to see she was crying. Because finally this was hers. This was hers — not taken, not demanded, not survived. Chosen. She was choosing this, choosing him in the only way she currently could, in the hot private dark behind her eyelids with the water running over her skin, and it felt like—
She was finally alive.
Like something that had been broken a long time ago quietly, privately, in a steam-filled shower in Montana, became whole.
After standing under the rainfall, her heartbeat slowed down and she stared at the tile and began to smile.
What came next was something quiet and warm and tentative, like the first green thing after a hard frost. Like the impossible gold of the sunrise this morning, coming up slow and then all at once.
She turned off the water.
Stood in the steam for a moment, her hand on the tile, her heartbeat still a little unsteady.
Then quietly laughing she said “okay…yeah… think I get what all the fuss is about.”
CAL
Sunlight poured through the tall windows, brilliant and rare. It spilled across the wide walnut countertops, glinted off the stainless steel appliances, and turned the big gourmet kitchen into something almost golden. The scent of fresh bread, sharp provolone, and the rich, peppery Tuscan olive oil filled the warm air. Outside the kitchen windows, the snow sparkled like crushed diamonds under a cloudless sky, the mountains standing sharp and majestic against all that blue.
Cal stood in the sun-drenched kitchen, knife in hand, trying to focus on the simple rhythm of building sandwiches.
It wasn’t working.
