June
I don’t answer his question.
We hold each other’s gaze, the shower clattering, our breath is the only sound in the bathroom. His fingers clamp around my wrists, dragging them down hard until I feel him.
My lips part slowly, chest heaving.
"Here," he rasps, the sound rough, almost… pleading.
My breath shatters. I nod, small, helpless, and my fingers curl at the edge of his towel. With a shaky tug, it falls away.
"Oh… God."
My jaw slack. I nearly stumble forward, my body colliding with his, because all I can see is his c**k. Thicker and heavier, bigger than this morning, bigger than my memories dared to exaggerate. Each time I see it, it’s as if it grows — stretching the limits of what I thought a man could carry. A wild thought claws through me: how can I even fit him inside me?
