We stumbled out of the bathroom, soaked and breathless. My back hit the wall. He followed, pressing me hard enough against the plaster that I could feel the studs behind it.
His hand slammed against the wall beside my head. He was breathing hard. Breathing like restraint was killing him.
"I need to help you." He leaned in.
My legs shook. My dress clung to my chest.
He hovered at my throat and inhaled deep. "You still smell like mine." Then kissed where my mark should be. He pressed his forehead to mine after we both shivered. "You think I don't know what this is doing to you? You think I haven't dreamed of this every night?"
He grunted when I dug my nails into his arms. "You think I don't hate that it's still you?"
He smiled. "I've imagined this every night. You bent over. Begging.
