Paper and Asphalt (Part 7)

You didn’t hear me come in.

The water masked everything-  a torrential hum pouring down from the ceiling. 

The steam was thicker than smoke, curling through the air like it had weight, like it could hide you from what you already knew was coming.

The water was scalding.

The heat seared you open.

But it wasn’t enough.

You thought it might replace the ache I had carved into you. Thought it might rinse me off your skin.

It didn’t.

Because then, you heard it.

Not loud. Not sudden.

Just the shift.

The soft drag of a zipper. The whisper of denim sliding down over skin. A belt hitting the floor with a low, metallic thud.

You didn’t turn.

But you saw me.

Through the veil of steam, my silhouette, tall and unshaken.

Bare from the waist up, chest already slick with the heat. My shoulders broad, arms relaxed, presence absolute. The steam clung to me like it knew not to run. Like it wanted to stay wrapped around something that dangerous.

Your breath caught.

Because even without words, even as just a shadow moving through fog, I commanded the room like I built it.

And then I stepped in.

Onto the stone floor.

Into the open shower behind you.

The steam curled between us.

The air shifted, not from sound, but weight. The kind of presence your skin recognized before your ears did.

I didn’t touch you.

Not yet.

But I stepped close enough for the heat between us to change- not the shower’s, mine.

Close enough that your breath caught in your throat like it was trying to decide whether to fight or submit.

And then, my voice.

Low.

Rough.

Like gravel dragged against silk- brushing the back of your neck without ever touching it.

“Still trying to wash me off?” I dragged my fingers across your breast where I had covered you.

You gasped. Soft. Involuntary.

Your fingers curled against the tile, nails pressing into the stone like you could claw your way free. But you didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

Because surrender doesn’t need a voice. It needs silence.

I reached for the soap.

Lathered it in my hands-  slow, exact. The bar gliding between my palms as the scent bloomed, a soft cedar, smoke, and salt.

I watched the suds slide over my skin.

Then I brought my hands back to you, and turned you to face away.

Flat palms. No pressure. Just weight.

My hands pressed against your shoulders- and you shuddered. A full-body reaction. Not from fear.

From memory.

Because your skin remembered me.

The way I take.

The way I don’t ask.

I dragged the lather down your back. Between your shoulder blades. Lower. A slow, deliberate descent that mirrored the way your breath fractured against the tile.

“You think this will make you clean?” I asked, voice a coil around your throat.

The soap slipped.

So did your resolve.

I stepped closer. My chest met the line of your spine, bare heat on bare skin. The contact was minimal, but enough to burn. Enough to brand.

My breath danced against the back of your neck.

“You’re not clean,” I whispered.

One hand slid around you.

Down.

Between your thighs.

And you didn’t stop me.

Didn’t flinch.

Because even now- under water meant to purify- you didn’t want salvation.

You wanted to be ruined.

“You’re mine.”

And your body, soaked and trembling, agreed before your mouth ever could.

But something shifted.

Not in me.

In you.

The tremor I expected, the breathy sound you always gave me when my hand found you, it didn’t come.

Not this time.

Your spine straightened. Not to surrender.

To resist.

And then, your hand caught my wrist.

Fingers curled tight. Water running between us like blood from a wound, like it was trying to erase what you were about to say before it landed.

Your voice came low, firm. A crack of glass in the steam.

“You can’t just come and grab me whenever you want.”

You turned your head- just enough to look over your shoulder. To meet the shadow of my face through the haze. 

Your eyes were sharp. Wet. Bright like a blade drawn under pressure.

“You can’t cancel my plans. Hijack my mornings. Make me forget where I was going, who I was, just because your hands are empty.”

The words landed like strikes. Not loud. Not rushed.

Deadly.

Measured.

“I have a life.”

Silence stretched- slow and dangerous. My hand still between your thighs. Your fingers still wrapped around my wrist.

The water beat down harder, like it didn’t know which one of us had just drawn blood.

Because for once, you weren’t trembling.

You were standing.

And I had to decide what to do with that.

I didn’t move.

Didn’t yank my hand free. Didn’t push harder. I just let the water pour over both of us, soaking the silence until it dripped between your fingers where they gripped my wrist.

I leaned in- not to intimidate but to remind.

My mouth brushed your ear. Barely. Just enough for my breath to curl against your skin like smoke slipping under a locked door.

“I’m not hijacking your morning,” I said, voice low, final. “I’m giving you what you want.”

I smiled.

“And you’ll give me what I want.”

My fingers flexed. Just once. Still between your thighs. Still in control- even in your protest.

“You walked into this,” I whispered, my voice threading through the steam, curling around your throat like silk edged in wire. “Every time you swiped the screen. Every time you pressed play. Every time your body broke before your mouth could form a no.”

Your pulse throbbed against my wrist, frantic and exposed. But you didn’t pull away.

And neither did I.

“You don’t get to rewrite that now,” I said, dragging the words slow, low, lethal. “Not just because you’re scared of how much you want it.”

My hand slid from between your thighs, deliberate and unhurried. Not a retreat. A reminder. That restraint is not weakness. It’s power held in reserve.

Steam billowed between us, but I didn’t let it become distance. I moved around you- a slow orbit, cutting through the heat until I stood in front of you. Naked. Wet. My eyes locked to yours.

And there you were.

“You have a life?” I murmured, water sluicing down my shoulders, tracing every line of muscle like worship. “Good.”

I let my gaze drag down your body, not hungry- calculating.

“Then you understand what it means to make choices. Real ones.”

You opened your mouth, maybe to speak. Maybe to protest. I didn’t give you the space.

The steam curled between our bodies like a breath held too long.

“I won’t take you from your life.” I said, voice low and calm, like I was delivering terms instead of threats.

The heat pulsed between us, but my hands didn’t move.

“You give me what I want, like we agreed to. You make space. You show up. You follow through.”

Water slid down your chest, caught at the curve of your breast. My eyes followed it, but I didn’t reach.

“And I’ll respect the rest of your life,” I said.

Another beat of silence.

“Your schedule.” I taunted.

The last word curved into something darker.

“But if you break it- if you flinch, if you lie, if you try to run,”

I leaned in, breath brushing the hollow beneath your jaw.

“I’ll take what I need anyways,”

Then I stepped back, “and I really don’t want to do that.”

You stood there- soaked, flushed, spine straighter than it had any right to be. Steam still coiled between us, but your voice cut through it like a blade laced in challenge.

“Fine,” you said, sharp and clear. “You want a schedule? Here’s my schedule.”

I arched a brow.

You didn’t wait.

“I’m off Fridays. I don’t want you hijacking my mornings, ambushing my car, hacking my building.” A pause. Then you added “And I get a say. In how this goes. When it happens. Where.”

That last word came out low. Almost a threat.

Your chest was heaving, water dripping from your collarbones like punctuation, mouth parted like you couldn’t decide whether to fight me or kiss me.

And fuck, you were magnificent like that.

But I didn’t smile.

I didn’t tease.

I moved.

One slow step forward- not to touch, but to pass. I reached around you, close enough for your breath to stutter, and palmed the shower control. The water cut off with a mechanical hiss- sharp, final.

Silence fell like a curtain.

Then the air shifted again.

I turned without a word and reached for the towel- thick, black, and still radiating heat from the warmer embedded seamlessly into the slate wall.

I held it out to you.

Didn’t wrap it around you. Didn’t press it to your back like a balm.

I offered.

And when you took it- slow, trembling, droplets still chasing down your spine- I watched.

I watched the way your fingers curled into it first. Felt it. The weight. The heat. The softness made to disarm. You clutched it to your chest, tentative, then opened it, pulling it around yourself like armor you weren’t sure you were allowed to wear.

The towel clung to your skin, searing against the chill of the air, soaking up the last of the water- and the last of your pride.

I stepped towards you again- close enough for the thick cotton tucked around you to press into my stomach. Your fingers tightened on the edge.

“We will meet once a week,” I said, voice low and unshakable.

Your eyes snapped to mine.

“Every Friday.”

Another breath.

“No excuses. No rescheduling. No games.”

The words didn’t bite. They wrapped- like the towel around your body. Like the promise curling around your throat.

“You want boundaries?” I murmured, voice brushing your jaw.

“Then follow mine.”

I reached for the second towel- pristine, white, decadent- and snapped it open with a flick of my wrist. The sound cracked through the bathroom like a whip, sharp and final. Your breath hitched.

I dragged it across my chest, slow and unhurried, soaking every line of heat still clinging to my skin. Across my collarbones. Down over the cut of my shoulders. My biceps flexed with the motion, but not for show. Just precision. Just control. Each pass of the towel mapped my anatomy like it was tracing out something sacred.

And I kept going.

Down over my ribs.

Across my stomach, slowly.

Deliberate.

The fabric dragged across the trail of hair leading beneath my hips, and I knew exactly where your eyes went.

I didn’t stop. Just let the towel follow the slope of muscle, taut and low, until it grazed the place you wanted and didn’t dare name.

And then- I wrapped the towel around my waist.

Low.

Dangerously low.

Tucked it in with one hand while the other smoothed it once, a single, devastating motion across my hips that said more than any touch ever could.

I finally looked at you.

And fuck.

The way you were watching me- breathless, towel forgotten in your grip, jaw slightly slack, thighs pressed together like friction might save you.

I almost broke then.

Almost took you against that wall, towel and terms be damned.

I stepped forward, bare feet silent on the stone, steam curling off my skin. I passed you, let the heat roll off my body, trail over your chest, your throat, your mouth.

Just close enough for your breath to stutter against mine.

“I have a meeting,” I murmured. “Clients.”

I turned toward the door, every muscle flexing beneath the damp heat still clinging to my body.

Then over my shoulder, without looking back, “Meet me in the living room when you’re ready to leave.”

A pause. Lethal. Loaded.

“Don’t keep me waiting.”

I walked out.

You stepped into the living room like you weren’t sure if you had already missed something.

Your skin was still warm from the towel. Clothes clung where your body hadn’t quite cooled, where the memory of heat hadn’t faded.

You smoothed your palms over your hips once, trying to ground yourself.

But then you saw me.

I was at the window- phone to my ear, voice low and clipped, “No, not until my confirmation. Delay it if necessary, and keep off the second instance.”

You paused, just long enough to feel the shift in the room.

I didn’t look at you.

Didn’t acknowledge the question in your eyes.

I just pointed- one hand lifting from my side, fingers sharp, controlled- to the black umbrella leaned against the corner. Not a suggestion. A direction.

You noticed the rain outside just as your body moved.

You crossed the room, hand closing around the handle, and when you turned back, I was already walking. Still speaking into the phone, voice low, edges too smooth to catch on anything real.

We reached the door together.

And again- without breaking rhythm- I pointed.

To your shoes.

Your gaze dropped, confused for half a second. But then your body obeyed.

You stepped into them silently, the act feeling more like a ritual than a routine.

The elevator doors slid open the moment we approached. You didn’t ask where we were going.

You didn’t need to.

My presence answered for you.

We descended in silence. My call didn’t end.

“Yes. No leaks. Don’t reroute until you hear from me directly. I’ll finish up the rest in an hour.”

You tried to parse the phrases. Tried to read between the words.

But there was nothing to hold onto. Just the smooth hum of the elevator, the steady drip of rain against the glass, and my voice- calm, absolute, untouchable.

The doors opened at the garage level.

And I pointed again.

To your car.

Your breath hitched.

Because they weren’t just hand gestures anymore.

They were instructions.

Every point, an instruction, a command. And you listened.

The garage was dim- shadows clinging to concrete, headlights glinting off wet pavement just outside the glass.

The rain hadn’t let up. It poured like a curtain around the city, sealing you both inside something that felt more ritual than real.

You moved toward your car because I’d pointed.

Not because you understood.

Not because you were ready.

I followed- still on the phone, still murmuring sharp, controlled fragments into the receiver like nothing else mattered.

“Ask them to have it delivered to the address, no one else needs to use it.”

You reached the driver’s side.

Hand on the door.

And just as you pulled it open- 

I moved.

My hand landed on the back of your neck- firm, deliberate, no hesitation- and bent you forward over the leather seat. Your eyes caught, hands bracing on the edge before you could even speak.

You didn’t have time to protest.

I didn’t give you one.

The phone stayed pressed to my ear. My voice didn’t break.

But my other hand slid down your spine like it had every right- gripped the waistband of your pants- and dragged them down in one swift, punishing motion. Wet cotton clung, peeled, surrendered.

Your breath fractured.

Legs spread.

And I didn’t wait.

I pushed in.

All of me.

One brutal, unyielding thrust that buried every inch.

You sobbed- not from pain. From the shock of it.

From the stretch.

From the way your body betrayed you instantly, soaking and ready, like it had known this was coming the moment I pointed to your shoes.

My free hand gripped your hip. Tight. Possessive. The kind of grip that wouldn’t leave in an hour, or even tomorrow.

Still, I didn’t stop the call.

“Yes,” I said, voice smooth as sin. “Don’t let them move forward without it.”

I thrusted again.

Harder.

Your fingers clawed the seat.

I bent low over your back, phone still to my ear, mouth grazing your shoulder.

“Without me.”

You didn’t speak.

Couldn’t.

You were already shaking- stretched wide, filled to the hilt, body pinned in place by hands that never needed to ask.

I kept going.

Steady, devastating, like I was fucking you through the silence. Like I needed you to remember this every time you touched that driver’s side door.

My voice stayed even.

You came undone anyway.

Your mouth parted- a helpless, sharp sound building in the back of your throat, ready to escape. A whimper. A whelp. Raw, high, instinctive. Your body couldn’t hold it in any longer.

But I could.

My hand snapped forward before the sound broke free, fingers clamping over your mouth from behind, palm rough and sure, silencing you without a word. Your cry died against my skin, trembling lips pressed to my palm.

And I didn’t stop moving.

Didn’t even slow.

My voice stayed steady.

“If they ask again, just tell them to come straight to me.”

Another thrust.

Deep.

Devastating.

The kind that made your knees give, your thighs quake, your hands claw harder at the car seat beneath you.

You were soaked. Clenching. Pulling me in like your body was begging to be claimed, wrecked, sealed from the inside.

And I gave it to you.

With one last drive, a final thrust that pushed every inch deep, I came.

Hard.

Heat flooding into you in pulsing, possessive waves.

My grip on your hip tightened, bruising. The other hand still over your mouth as your moan vibrated against my palm, muffled and shattered.

My cock throbbed inside you.

You shook.

Not from cold. From the overload.

From the unbearable fullness.

From the fact that I hadn’t even broken my rhythm on the call while I filled you.

I held there.

Buried, pulsing inside you.

Your body trembling against the car like you couldn’t remember how to stand.

And then, only when I knew you would feel the rush of every drop in you, did I speak again.

To them.

Not to you.

“We’re done here.”

And to you?

Nothing.

Not yet.

You didn’t need words.

You were still full of mine.

I pulled out slowly.

Cruel.

Your body twitched around the loss, clenching once like it didn’t want to let go.

My release spilled down your thighs- hot, thick, inevitable. A mark. A memory.

You just fell against the frame of your car, still bent, forehead pressed against the car, body leaning- you couldn’t get up even if you wanted.

My cock was still wet.

Covered in the mess you left, the mess we left. Warm. Wet. Coating me like your body hadn’t finished letting go. I felt the way you’d drenched me, the way your release clung thick to every inch.

I wrapped a hand around the base- slow, deliberate- and tucked myself away.

You reached down with shaking fingers, dragging your pants back up- slow, sticky, soaked in what I had given you.

Your breath hitched when the fabric met the slick between your legs. You didn’t meet my eyes.

I didn’t need you to.

I reached past you, one firm hand guiding you upright by the waist, the other steadying the door.

Then I helped you into the seat.

Not gently.

Efficiently.

You moved like someone still trying to process the moment, still clenching around the ghost of me inside you.

I leaned down, one hand still braced on the frame, the other now on the roof, and looked you dead in the eyes.

“I’ll see you next Friday.”

 

 

 

 

-Gambit