The groan that slipped from his mouth was one of delicacy; it was low, and it was deep, and it was heavenly. It was born of his hand fisting his cock, his lips trembling from the pleasure, his hips thrusting into his own grip.
It was pure sin. How else could he describe it? A sin, a crime, a degradation of their beings.
The cool tile soothed Adam's heated skin, slightly damp and a dim reminder of his surroundings. His shoulder blades dug against it, the shower head rained rivulets of a water, but all was irrelevant when his eyes were shut so tightly, lashes fanning against his cheeks.
The exertion was noticeable, as were the soft whimpers. Things no one but him and these shower walls would bear witness to. He sped up his actions, aiming for his reward, fingers squeezing and wrist flicking. He craved something.
Someone.
Adam wishes he felt the weight of a hand holding his wrist back, he wishes there had no point in this activity, he wishes to let it go, but he simply could not. She was painted across his eyelids. She had etched herself there, carved herself with teeth, nails, blood, intoxicating kisses. She was the image he never forgot, and she was the one he envisioned now, as he pumped his cock, barrelling toward desperate release.
It was the details that he saw. The curve of her breasts, the ones he had longed so much to hold ever since such a thing mattered to a boy like him. The arch of her back, the angle her spine made as she laid on her side, perfect for him to savour, and perfect for her to submit. The slope of her waist, and the way it would fit between his palms like they were the only barriers she ever needed. Her thighs, and her arse, and her shoulders, collarbones, arms and eyes and lips and whispers.
Whispers, those whispers he felt against his neck, the ones that had his hips twitching. The breaths she had gifted him, tied with moans and cries and whines. The way she had begged for him, at him. How she had drawn her fingers across his arm, and how much he wished she then followed the intangible path with her tongue. Up, and then lower and lower.
"Fuck." He swore, his climax drawing him in.
She had taken him in. She had created, crafted, sculpted him, and now he could only give her this. Him, her creature. Would that please her? Is this enough? He did not know how he had lasted so long right now, and he would woe to disappoint, to have something he craved for so long end so quickly. How could he improve? How can he know?
The steam clouded around him, hot and stealing the very breath from his lungs. He tightened his hand, her cunt in mind. His thighs were clenching, and he relied on the wall for support. His hair was soaked and his face was flushed.
There was nothing but her. Her, and the way the pigment she was depicted against his eyelids with was so bewitching, tantalizing as it was imprinted across every blink, stark as if he held a picture right there. So many pictures, he had hidden away. Would she smile or would she pout? How would she look at him in such an occasion? What would she wear?
She would lay beneath him, legs hooked around his waist, lips trailing a delectable path up his throat, the same throat his free hand closed over at an attempt in imitation. Her moans would be saccharine, like his favourite treacle tart, and having her will only make him crave more.
Until he was getting off in the privacy of his shower, the taste of her bleeding over his tongue and encapsulating his very sense of self. Every muscle tightened for a moment, slightly spasming, and he moved his hand faster, harder, until he was painting his stomach in ropes of white.
Those subsequent groans paired nicely with the climax that now covered his torso and hand, the water slowly washing them off. He rode the orgasm out, until his knees were buckling, and his head was falling back against the wall, lips parted and eyes fluttering in pleasure.
"Fuck." He mumbled this time, dropping his slowly softening length, shaking his spotty vision and cotton hearing away.
He took a few deep breaths, returning to reality, and picked up the washcloth, cleaning himself quickly, but he was still unsteady as he finished his shower, stepping out and wrapping the towel around his hips. His chest was still heaving, his pupils were still blown, his fingers were still trembling as he wiped the condensation from the mirror, revealing his reflection.
He planted his hands on the counter, bracing his weight on them, then met his own gaze. Adam had always been known for his uniformity. Everything was even, perfectly parted and awfully symmetric. The rare black hair from his homeland, blue eyes, pale skin.
All equal and the same. All contributing to that classical beauty he is said to possess, but that cannot give him what he truly wants. A beauty that haunts him, in form of his father, of Zora, of Orsted.
It is suffocating.
Alas, it was these times, always the ones where he was thinking of her, that he fell apart. Because his cheeks held colour, his chest a mix of perspiration and water, his lips a lovely shade of bright, startling red. He contained vitality. He was alive again.
He was no longer cool, collected. He was no longer a doll to be admired. He was full of life, of desperation, of obsession.
He imagined the way she would look next to him, as if she were standing there now. Her touch roving over his shoulders, his chest. Her lips against his pulse point. He was alive, and it was because of her.
His sweet indulgence. His greatest desire.