The first contact with the toy made him gasp, a sharp inhale that turned into a muffled sound at the back of his throat.
"Breathe," she ordered, softer now, steadier. For all her heat, she could be steady when she wanted to be.
He focused on that steadiness.
Inch by inch, the thick tip eased in. Even with the lube slick between them and the water running over his skin, the first stretch hurt — a sharp burn that made his breath catch and his nails scrape at the tile.
But slowly, through the sting, the ache shifted and melted into a slow, hot bloom that threaded through his ribs.
Tears stung the corners of his eyes, not strictly from pain; a rawness thrummed beneath everything, vulnerability laid bare and the astonishment of being opened in a way he had never let anyone open him.
Her hand was a firm bracket at his hip. The other rested over his heart, a grounding weight.
