She likes to take frigid showers after their nights together. Mentioning something about the shock exciting her. He's not sure if it's healthy to switch between such extreme temperatures.
Their bodies hold tight as icy water pounds into their flushed skin. Hands brush faces, and a pair of lips explores the grooves of a neck, all in the pretense of spreading soap through the flesh. Throughout this freezing dance a pulsing heat grows.
She considers leaving the not quite cramped stall for a mattress. He murmurs something about returning again if they leave. Sweat falls in rivulets, easily confused with cold water. Eyes flicker, not sure whether to stare at beauty, or to close in euphoria. She pushes him towards the door, and he stumbles back, faling down and grabbing her by the hips. Sprawled on the floor he thinks they should laugh. Hands put pressure on his groin, and he forgets what laughter is.
She doesn't care about the difference between showers and beds anymore. All she knows is completion-and that she's not there yet. Bodies move, slickened with water and sweat. A pulsing rhythm drives the pair, and she screams when its over.
Don and Terry held tight at the bottom of a not quite cramped shower stall. Frigid and shocking water pouring down like rain.