Chapter 20 Bathroom sex 🍆💦

Chapter 20 Bathroom sex 🍆💦
Nora’s POV

Sunlight slices through the half-open blinds in cruel, golden strips. I wake slowly, the way you do when your body remembers pleasure before your mind catches up. My thighs feel tender, a faint delicious ache that makes me press my legs together instinctively. The sheets are twisted around my waist, cool against overheated skin. My top is still on–rumpled, clinging but my shorts are gone, kicked somewhere across the room last night.
I don’t remember taking them off.
I only remember Daniel’s hands, his mouth, the way he looked up at me from between my legs like I was something sacred.
God.
Last night.
The memory hits hard now. His tongue dragging slow, deliberate paths. The way he moaned against me like I tasted better than anything he’d ever had. The filthy things he said–“Use my tongue, baby. Fuck my face.”and how I did. How I gripped his hair and rode his mouth until I shattered so hard my vision whited out. He didn’t stop. Not until I was trembling, and gasping his name like a prayer I didn’t know I knew.
And then… nothing. He kissed my inner thigh once–soft, almost reverent –stood up, disappeared into the bathroom, came back with a robe, and left.

Just… left. Like he’d given me the best orgasm of my life and then decided the night was over.I roll onto my back, stare at the ceiling. My nipples are still sensitive, pebbled under the thin cotton of my shirt. My clit throbs once when I shift, remembering the exact pressure of his tongue circling it. I bite my lip hard enough it hurts. I wanted more. I wanted him inside me.I wanted to feel him stretch me, fill me, fuck me until neither of us could think straight. I wanted his weight on top of me, his mouth on my neck, his hands pinning my wrists above my head while he drove into me so deep I forgot my own name. I wanted to come around his cock, clenching, milking him, hearing him groan my name the way he groaned when I pulled his hair.
Instead he walked away.
Why?The scandal? The phone call? Fear that if we crossed that line there’d be no going back?Or maybe he just didn’t want me that badly.
The thought stings more than it should.I press my palm between my legs–light, testing. A soft whimper escapes before I can stop it. I’m still wet. Still swollen. Still aching for him.
Suddenly a wet nose shoves itself under my elbow.
Pickles. He smells like yesterday’s park run–earth, grass, faint dog-shampoo, and something dirty.
“Ugh, buddy,” I mutter, scratching behind his ears even as my nose wrinkles. “You stink.”He licks my cheek in one long, enthusiastic swipe. I laugh and shove him gently off my face.
“Okay, okay. Bath time for you first. Then maybe me.”
I drag myself upright. My legs feel unsteady when I stand, like the orgasm left me drunk. I pulled on yesterday’s shorts which were still on the floor and pad barefoot down the hall, Pickles trotting happily at my heels.

The kitchen smells like coffee and bacon before I even turn the corner.Daniel is already there.He’s at the stove in gray sweatpants and a faded black T-shirt, sleeves pushed to his elbows, hair still messy from sleep or from my fingers last night.
The sight of him–hot, domestic, sleeves rolled like he’s done this a thousand mornings makes my stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with hunger.
My stomach growls anyway. Loud.
He glances over his shoulder. Smiles. Small. Careful. “Morning.”
“Morning,” I managed to reply. My voice is hoarse.
He slides a plate across towards me:scrambled eggs flecked with chives, crispy bacon, thick toast slathered with butter, a small bowl of sliced strawberries. It looks delicious. I slide onto the stool.
“Thank you.”He nods once. Doesn’t speak.I eat slowly, hyper-aware of him moving around the kitchen–pouring coffee, plating his own food, sitting on the stool next to me. Our knees brush once under the table. Neither of us pulls away.
We eat in silence.
It feels uncomfortable.
It’s heavy.
Awkward
.
Every clink of fork, every sip of coffee, every time he glances sideways at me feels like foreplay. We're both too scared to say anything.When I finish he reaches for my plate without asking. Our fingers brush and I feel the contact straight between my legs.
“Thank you,” I say again. Softer this time. “For breakfast. And… for last night.”
He pauses. Nods once. Jaw tight. I swallow. “Pickles stink. I’m going to give him a bath.”
Daniel’s mouth twitches almost a smile.
“He does. Go ahead. Towels are in the hall closet.”
I scoop Pickles up and carry him toward the guest bathroom. He thinks it’s a game until I turn on the water. Then the betrayal begins.
Twenty minutes later he’s clean, fluffy, smelling like coconut conditioner and dripping all over the tiles. I towel him off as best I can, kiss the top of his damp head, and send him trotting back toward the living room.
I’m all sweaty now. Sticky.
My skin still remembers Daniel’s mouth too vividly.

I stripped fast and stepped under the shower spray. The hot water hits my shoulders, my back, my breasts. I tip my head back, let it soak my hair, and close my eyes. And think about him.Again.
About how his shoulders looked when he knelt between my thighs. About the way his eyes darkened when I begged. About how hard he was–I felt it against my leg when he carried me to the bed afterward and yet he still walked away.I slid one hand down my stomach. Hesitate. Then I cup myself. My clit is still sensitive,the lightest touch makes me gasp.
I want him here.
I want him to open the door, see me like this–naked, wet, fingers circling and decide he can’t wait anymore.The fantasy is so vivid I almost moan.
Then the door opens.My eyes snap wide open.
I heard footsteps–slow, deliberate on the tile.Panic spikes sharp and bright.“Who’s there?” My voice cracks.Silence for half a heartbeat.Then his voice–low, rough, wrecked.“It’s me.”
Daniel.
I freeze.The shower curtain is sheer white.Not hiding anything. He can see every inch of me. The water streaming over my breasts, down my stomach, between my thighs where my hand is still pressed.
My nipples are tight peaks. My cheeks burn hotter than the water.
He doesn’t move.
Neither do I.
I can feel his gaze like a physical touch. It's slow, hungry, dragging from my face to my throat to my breasts to the hand between my legs.