Filthykings
Hazel Grace, Peter Green Pic(s)
The steam rose in lazy, swirling tendrils, cloaking the tiled walls in a warm, wet haze that clung to the skin like a second caress. Under the steady, drumming pulse of the water, her body glistened, every curve and plane highlighted by the droplets that traced paths over her shoulders and down the slope of her back. He leaned agat the slick, cool surface, his head tilting back as her knowing hands explored the tense muscles of his chest and abdomen, her touch both firm and yielding. She slowly descended to her knees, her eyes holding his with a smoldering promise as the water cascaded over her hair and shoulders, darkening it to a deeper hue. Her lips, warm and impossibly soft, found his heated skin, beginning a slow, deliberate journey downwards that made his breath catch in his throat. The world narrowed to this small, humid sanctuary, the sound of the shower a white noise that muffled his low, guttural groan of pleasure. Her mouth was a vessel of exquisite pressure and velvet warmth, a perfect, wet suction that drew him deeper into a vortex of sensation. Every movement was a languid, practiced art, a rhythmic dance that left him trembling, his fingers curling agat the tile for purchase. He was utterly consumed, lost in the primal, intoxicating rhythm of her gift, each second stretching into an eternity of pure, unadulterated ecstasy.
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