Page 73 of Faultlines
I get up, the carpet soft under my bare feet.
The bathroom door opens to a wall of warm steam. I stand in the doorway, observing the fogged mirror, the wet tile floor, and her silhouette behind the frosted glass. Her long blonde hair is plastered to her neck and shoulders, and her head is tilted back under the spray.
She hasn’t heard me yet over the rush of the water. I watch her for three full seconds, the only sound is water splashing against tile. When I open the shower door, the sudden burst of cooler air makes her shiver.
She turns toward me and the corners of her mouth pull up shyly.
“Hi,” she says, water streaming down her throat and over her collarbone.
“Hi.” I step into the shower, and the water hits my chest. I reach past her to adjust the temperature, the chrome handle warm beneath my fingers. She watches me as if contemplating something delicious.
She’s not surprised I’m here, I think. I back her against the tiled wall, and she goes willingly, her body pliant. She lifts her face to mine, and I kiss her unhurried. The shower’s spray forms a warm curtain that falls over us. I gather her wet hair, darkened by the water, pull it aside, and press my mouth to her neck, tasting the faintest hint of soap.
“We have ninety minutes,” I mumble against her skin. “Ninety minutes is plenty of time for what I have planned,” I clarify.
Her smile broadens into a mischievous glint. I lift her thigh, positioning myself at her entrance. My free hand braces on the slick tile beside her head. When I push inside her, she tips her head back against the tile with a soft thud. A desperate, guttural cry vibrates through the water.
“God,” she says, her voice strained.
“Yeah.” I press deeper, feeling the exquisite pressure. “Yeah, I know.”
I move, a slow, deliberate rhythm, and she moves with me, her arms wrapping around my neck, her forehead dropping against mine. The steam swirls around us reaching every place we join. My lips brush the delicate curve of her ear. “I woke up and heard the water,” I say, my voice low and intimate. “And I thought—I’m not missing this.”
I thrust forward harder, a sudden surge, and she gasps, a sharp intake of breath. Her laugh is a breathless sound that breaks off into a moan as her nails press into my shoulders, not quite breaking the skin, but leaving a hot imprint.
“You feel unreal.” My voice catching. “Every time I keep thinking it can’t—” I thrust harder. “—feel like this again, but it does.”
“Don’t stop talking,” she says.
I pull her closer, changing the angle, and she moans my name.
“You think I want to stop? I’ve been awake for six minutes, and this is already the best morning I can remember.”
“Six minutes—” she begins, a hint of laughter in her tone.
“I move fast.” I press my mouth to her temple, to her wet hair, tasting the dampness. “You’re worth moving fast for.”
She shudders against the wall, her body clenching as she comes apart, both hands fisted into my wet hair. I follow right behind her, her name on my lips—low and deliberate.
We stay there, locked together, the hot water cooling. Outside, the city is already in full swing, audible through the thick glass. The conference starts in seventy-three minutes.
“Shower’s getting cold,” she says, a shiver running through her.
“A bit.”
I turn off the water and the sudden silence amplifies the city outside. Pushing the door open, I hand her a towel. She catches my eye in the fogged mirror; her reflection is hazy. “Breakfast?” she asks.
“Yeah, let’s get breakfast.”
The lights over the conference hall bleach all color from the room. I trace the seam of my phone, ignoring the speaker’s droning voice. I picture Brooke outside and imagine the shops she’s exploring. My focus isn’t here on architectural ethics, but on the ache of anticipation.
I spot her outside on a bench, bathed in the warm, late afternoon sun, a book open in her lap, bubble tea in her hand. She looks up as I approach and smiles.
I let out a soft exhale as I sit beside her. “There you are.”
“You say that like I’ve been gone for days.”
“It feels like it.”
