Steam beg to curl, a ghostly veil that softens the hard edges of the world as hot water cascades in a relentless, soothing torrent. Each droplet traces a glistening path over skin flushed with a rising warmth, catching the light like scattered diamonds agat a canvas of smooth, pliant flesh. The air thickens with the humid scent of clean skin and something darker, more primal, a musk of pure anticipation. A hand slides slowly over a slick shoulder, fingers pressing into yielding muscle, following the delicious curve of a hip as the body turns into the liquid heat. A low, throaty murmur escapes, swallowed by the drumming spray, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure that vibrates through the steam-cloaked space. Eyes drift closed, not in sleep but in deep focus, surrendering to the sensation of water streaming over sensitive peaks and into hidden, waiting hollows. Every nerve ending seems to awaken, humming with a delicious tension that promises a release more profound than any simple cleansing. The heat penetrates deep, loosening limbs and stirring a heavy, languid pulse that beats in time with the thrumming water. This is a sacred, private baptism, a preparation where every slick inch of skin whispers a single, silent invitation to the touch that must surely follow.
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