I was conditioning my hair, just standing under the water with my eyes closed and the conditioner piling up on my head, when he opened the shower door and got in.
“Don’t move,” he said.
I didn’t. The water was running down my face, mixing with the conditioner, and he was already pushing into me from behind before I could even say anything. The shower wall was cold when he pressed me against it.
He was rough about it, all efficiency, like he had somewhere to be. His hands were on my waist. He bent my knees a little and thrusted up into me, and I was stuck between the cold tile and his hot body and the water falling on my head. The conditioner was running into my eyes and I couldn’t see anything, everything was stinging and white and full of him.
“Fuck,” he breathed against my neck, and he was moving faster, harder, pushing me against the wall with each thrust.
It was over fast. He came with a groan, still holding me there, and then he just left. Got out of the shower like he hadn’t just destroyed me and left me standing blind under the spray.
I had to rinse the conditioner out of my eyes so I could see. My legs were shaking. The water was running down my thighs carrying him out of me.
He called from the bedroom that he was taking his coffee in five minutes.
I made his coffee with conditioner residue still in my hair.
