We stumble through the hotel lobby like two people who have forgotten how to walk on solid ground, leaving trails of rainwater across the marble floor.
The concierge looks up from her desk, takes in our soaked clothes and breathless faces, and decides whatever we are doing is none of her business.
Estienne handles the transaction while I stand behind him, close enough to feel the warmth rising from his damp skin.
My mind cycles through all the reasons this is a terrible idea.
He does not know who you are. He does not know what you did. If he knew, he would never touch you again.
But my body refuses to listen. My fingers trace the line of his spine through his wet shirt, and I watch his shoulders tense at the contact.
His hand finds mine as he accepts the key, and the warmth of his palm against my cold fingers silences every rational thought.
The elevator swallows us whole, and the moment the doors seal shut, his body crowds mine against the wall.
I feel every inch of him through our soaked clothes—the heat, the tension, the restraint that trembles through his muscles like a wire pulled too tight.
The chime breaks the spell just enough for us to stumble into the corridor, his hand burning against the small of my back, propelling me forward through the hallway.
The hotel room door barely closes before his mouth finds mine, hungry and desperate, and I realize we have been starving for days without admitting it.
My back hits the wall, and the impact sends a shudder through my entire body.
His hands fist in my soaked shirt, pulling me closer, and I can feel the heat of him even through layers of wet fabric.
We are both shivering, both dripping rainwater onto the carpet, and neither of us cares.
His fingers find the hem of my shirt and yank it upward. The cold air hits my skin, followed immediately by the warmth of his palms sliding up my ribcage.
I gasp into his mouth, arching into his touch, my own hands clawing at the buttons of his shirt with a desperation that borders on violence.
"Shower," he manages against my lips, the word more breath than sound. "You need to warm up."
I answer by biting his bottom lip hard enough to make him groan.
He lifts me without breaking the kiss, my legs wrapping around his waist, and carries me toward the bathroom.
My spine meets the doorframe, and the brief flash of pain only sharpens the pleasure coiling low in my belly.
I grind against him, feeling exactly how much he wants this, and the sound he makes vibrates through my chest.
The bathroom light flickers on.
He sets me down just long enough to turn on the water, steam already beginning to curl through the air, and then his hands are back on me, peeling away wet fabric, baring skin that prickles with cold and anticipation.
I strip him with equal urgency, my fingers tracing the planes of his chest, the ridges of his abdomen, the sharp cut of his hipbones.
He is beautiful in ways that make my throat ache, and when I finally push his jeans down his thighs, my mouth goes dry at the sight of him.
"Get in," he rasps, his pale eyes dark with need.
The hot water hits my shoulders like absolution. I tip my head back, letting it cascade down my body, washing away the rain and the cold and the last of my hesitation.
Then he steps in behind me, and the sensation of his chest pressing against my spine makes every nerve ending ignite.
His hands slide around my waist, pulling me back against him. I can feel him hard and hot against the curve of my ass, and my hips roll instinctively, seeking friction.
His groan rumbles through my body as his mouth finds the junction of my neck and shoulder, teeth grazing sensitive skin.
I turn in his arms, pressing my breasts against his chest, and the slick slide of wet skin against wet skin is almost unbearable.
His hands cup my face, tilting my head back, and he kisses me deep and thorough, his tongue stroking against mine in a rhythm that promises everything.
My back meets the cool tile, the contrast with the hot water making me gasp. He swallows the sound, one hand sliding down my stomach, fingers tracing the crease of my thigh.
I spread my legs wider, an invitation he accepts immediately, his touch finding the place where I am wet and aching and desperate for him.
"Yes." The word tears out of me, raw and broken.
He strokes me slowly, maddeningly, learning what makes me shake.
When his fingers finally push inside, my knees buckle, and only his arm around my waist keeps me upright.
I clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into muscle, riding his hand with shameless desperation.
The orgasm builds fast and brutal, cresting before I am ready for it.
I cry out against his throat as it crashes through me, my inner walls clenching around his fingers, my whole body shuddering with the force of release.
He does not give me time to recover.
Before the tremors have fully subsided, he lifts me again, and I wrap around him like I was made to fit there.
He carries me out of the shower, both of us dripping, leaving wet footprints across the tile, through the bathroom door, onto the bed.
The mattress receives us with a soft bounce.
He settles over me, his weight a comfort, his heat a brand. I pull him down, kissing him hard, tasting water and want on his tongue.
"Stop teasing." My teeth catch his bottom lip, tugging hard. "I need you inside me."
He positions himself at my entrance, and the first press of him makes my back arch off the bed.
He is thick and hard and I am still trembling from the shower, my body sensitive and swollen. When he finally pushes inside, filling me completely, the stretch borders on too much.
I do not care. I want more.
My hips lift to meet him, urging him deeper, and he groans like I am killing him. His forehead drops to mine, his breath ragged against my lips, as he begins to move in slow, devastating strokes.
"More," I pant. "Harder."
He obliges.
The pace shifts from tender to urgent, his hips snapping against mine with a force that makes the headboard knock against the wall.
I wrap my legs around his waist, changing the angle, and the new position drives him impossibly deeper. Each thrust punches a sound out of me, something between a moan and a sob.
His hand slides between us, fingers finding the bundle of nerves above where we are joined, rubbing in tight circles that make my vision blur.
I am climbing again, faster than before, my body coiling tighter with every movement.
Let go," he rasps against my ear, his voice shattered. "I want to feel you squeeze me."
The command undoes me.
I shatter around him, my release crashing through me in waves that seem to go on forever. My inner walls grip him rhythmically, pulling him deeper, and I feel the moment he loses control.
His hips stutter, his whole body going rigid, and then he spills inside me with a groan that sounds like my name.
We collapse together, tangled and breathless, our hearts pounding in synchrony.
His fingers trace lazy patterns on my hip as our breathing slows. The room smells like rain and sex and something that might be the beginning of everything or the end of it.
I have made a terrible mistake.
I have fallen in love with him.
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