The steam hit him first—thick and wet, curling into his lungs and making him cough before he could even think about where he was. Tommy's eyes burned. His nose filled with chlorine so sharp it stung, and he pressed his back against something cold and slick, his shoulder blades sliding against tile that was covered in a thin film of moisture.
He was going to die. He was actually, genuinely going to die in the girls' locker room.
The ceiling was lower here. The light was different—softer, almost pink, and that was wrong, that was so wrong—and there were voices all around him, high and laughing and talking about things he couldn't quite catch over the hiss of a dozen showerheads. The sound folded over itself, a wall of white noise that should have been comforting but wasn't. It was hiding him. It was also hiding everyone else.
Somewhere past the steam, a girl laughed. Another one shrieked about getting shampoo in her eyes. Tommy's stomach dropped through the floor.
He'd been staring at Sara all period. That was the whole problem. She'd worn that bikini—the tiny yellow one with the strings at the hips, the one that tied in a bow at the back and left nothing to the imagination—and he'd been watching the way the water beaded on her skin, the way her sun-streaked hair darkened at the ends, the way she'd caught him looking and grinned that slow, dangerous grin. And then Coach had blown the whistle and everyone was moving and Tommy was moving too, except he wasn't moving toward the boys' side.
He'd walked straight into the girls' locker room on autopilot, his brain still stuck on the curve of Sara's hip under the chlorinated water.
Now he was pressed against the cold tile, trying to breathe through his mouth, trying not to make a sound, trying to figure out how to get out without being seen. The towel rack was wrong. The benches were wrong. Everything was wrong, and every second he stood here was another second someone could walk in and see him and scream and then Coach would call his parents and his life was over.
"Tommy?"
The voice cut through the steam like a knife. He knew it before he saw her. He'd know that voice anywhere—the way it curled up at the end, amused and knowing, like she was already in on a joke he hadn't figured out yet.
Sara stepped out of the steam. Her hair was wet now, plastered to her shoulders in dark gold strands, and she was still wearing the yellow bikini. The top was barely a triangle, the bottoms a strip of fabric that disappeared between the cheeks of her ass. Water ran down her stomach, down the soft curve of her belly, and pooled in the little hollow at the base of her throat.
Tommy's mouth opened. Nothing came out.
"What are you doing in here?" She didn't sound angry. She sounded curious, tilting her head, blue eyes bright in the haze.
"I—" His voice cracked. "I got lost. I mean, I didn't get lost, I know where I am, I just—I was looking at you—" He heard the words coming out of his mouth and wanted to die. "In the pool. During class. And I wasn't paying attention, and everyone was moving, and I just—followed the crowd, I guess, except I followed the wrong crowd, and now I'm here, and I'm going to get expelled, and my mom is going to kill me, and—"
"Tommy."
He stopped. His chest was heaving. He was pretty sure he was hyperventilating.
Sara stepped closer. The tile was wet under her bare feet, and she moved like she owned the place, because she did. She owned this place. She was the one who belonged here. He was just a boy-shaped stain on the floor.
"You followed me in here," she said. Not a question. She said it like she was testing the words, tasting them.
"I didn't mean to—"
"You were staring at me in the pool."
Tommy's face went so hot he thought his ears might catch fire. "I—yeah. I mean. You were wearing—" He gestured helplessly at her, at the bikini, at all of it. "That."
Sara looked down at herself, then back up at him. Her grin was slow and sharp. "You like the bikini?"
The word "yes" came out of him like a reflex, too fast, too loud. He slapped a hand over his mouth. Somewhere past the steam, a girl's voice called out something he couldn't catch, and Sara didn't even flinch.
"You're going to get caught," she said, conversational, like she was discussing the weather. "Standing here. Panicking. You're loud, Tommy. You're really loud."
"I know." His voice was a squeak. "I know, I'm sorry, I just—I don't know what to do—"
"Come here."
She said it like it was nothing. Like she'd been planning this all along. She reached out and grabbed his wrist—her fingers were cool and wet—and pulled him out of the corner, past the bench, toward the row of shower stalls.
Tommy's feet moved without his permission. His brain was screaming at him to run, to bolt, to get out of here before someone saw, but his hand was wrapped in Sara's and she was pulling him and he couldn't make himself let go.
She picked a stall near the end—the one with a cracked tile in the corner, the one farthest from the other voices—and tugged him inside. The showerhead was already running, water spraying against the back wall and cascading down the tile in rivulets. The curtain was blue plastic, translucent, covered in a pattern of faded fish. Sara pulled it shut behind them, and the sound of the other girls dropped to a muffled murmur.
Tommy stood in the middle of the stall, dripping, shaking, his heart hammering against his ribs. The space was small. Intimate. The water was warm, and the steam was thicker here, wrapping around them, and Sara was standing in front of him in that yellow bikini with water running down her skin, and he couldn't breathe.
"You're shaking," she said. She wasn't teasing now. Her voice was softer, lower. She reached out and put her hand on his chest, over his heart. "Relax. They can't hear anything over the water."
"I—" He swallowed. "I don't know how to relax. I'm in the girls' locker room. I'm going to get in so much trouble—"
"You're not going to get in trouble." She said it like it was a fact. Like she'd already decided. "I'm going to get you out of here. But you have to calm down first, okay?"
Tommy tried to breathe. He really did. But Sara's hand was still on his chest, and her fingers were tracing little circles over his sternum, and her bikini was right there, and he could see the faint outline of her nipples through the thin fabric, and his body was doing something his brain had absolutely no control over.
His swim trunks tented. It was sudden and obvious and completely undeniable, and Tommy wanted to sink into the floor and disappear.
Sara's eyes dropped. She looked at the bulge in his trunks, then back up at his face, and her grin came back, slow and wicked.
"Oh," she said. "I see."
"Sara—"
"Don't worry about it." She stepped back, and her hands went to the knot at her hip. "I was going to take a shower anyway."
The string came loose. The fabric fell away from her hip, and she shimmied out of the bottoms, stepping out of them where they pooled at her feet. Then her hands went up, unhooking the top, and the yellow triangles dropped away, and she was naked.
Tommy forgot how to breathe.
She was beautiful. He'd known she was beautiful—he'd known it every day since he'd first seen her, since she'd first smiled at him in the hallway, since she'd first kissed him behind the gym—but seeing her like this, all of her, in the warm wet steam, was something else entirely. Her breasts were small and round, her nipples tight and pink from the heat. Her stomach was flat, her hips curved, and between her legs was a neat triangle of sun-bleached hair, lighter than the gold on her head.
She stepped under the spray. The water hit her shoulders, ran down her back, streamed over the curve of her ass. She tilted her head back and let it wash over her face, and Tommy watched a drop of water travel from her collarbone down to her nipple, then fall.
His cock was straining against his trunks so hard it hurt.
Sara opened her eyes. She looked at him through the steam, and her smile was soft now, almost tender, like she knew exactly what she was doing to him and she loved every second of it.
"You can look," she said. "I want you to look."
Tommy looked. He couldn't have stopped if he'd tried. She turned slowly, letting the water run over her back, over her ass, and then she turned back and reached for the waistband of his trunks.
"Sara—" His voice cracked again. "What are you—"
"Strip," she whispered.
The word hit him like a physical thing. His hands came up, fumbling at the drawstring, and she batted them away and did it herself—pulling the knot loose, pushing the wet fabric down his hips, letting it fall to the tile. His cock sprang free, hard and aching, and Sara looked at it for a long moment.
She didn't say anything. She just looked, and then she reached out and wrapped her fingers around it, and Tommy's whole body jerked.
"You're so hard," she murmured. She stroked him, slow, from base to tip, and her thumb circled the head, spreading the slick wetness there. "This is because of me?"
"Yes." The word came out strangled. "Sara, please—"
"Please what?"
He didn't know. He didn't know what he was asking for. He just knew that her hand was on him and he needed more, needed her, needed something he didn't have words for.
Sara smiled, and then she sank to her knees.
The tile was wet under her knees, and the water sprayed over both of them, and she looked up at him through the steam with those blue eyes, and then she opened her mouth and took him in.
Tommy's hand flew to the wall behind him. The tile was cold and slick under his palm, and his head fell back, and he made a sound he'd never made before in his life—a low, broken moan that got swallowed by the hiss of the shower.
Her mouth was hot and wet, and she took him deep. Not teasing, not testing—she opened her throat and swallowed him down, her nose pressed against his pelvis, her lips sealed around the base of his cock. Tommy's knees nearly buckled.
"Oh my god," he heard himself say. "Oh my god, Sara—"
She pulled back slowly, letting him slide out of her throat, and then she did it again—taking him deep, holding him there, her throat working around him. Her hands gripped his ass, pulling him closer, and Tommy's fingers curled against the tile, his whole body trembling.
The steam curled around them. The water ran down his chest, down his stomach, dripping onto her face as she bobbed her head. She looked up at him, her blue eyes bright and wet, and she didn't stop. She took him over and over, deep and slow, and Tommy could feel the pressure building, the heat coiling low in his belly.
"Sara—" His voice was barely a breath. "I'm—I'm close, I—"
She pulled off him, a string of spit connecting her lips to the head of his cock, and she looked up at him with that wicked grin.
"Not yet," she said. "I want you inside me."
Tommy's brain short-circuited. "Inside—"
"You heard me." She stood up, and her hand found his, and she guided him backward until his back hit the tile. Then she turned around, bracing her hands against the wall, and looked over her shoulder at him. "I want you to fuck me, Tommy."
His mouth opened. Nothing came out.
"We don't have much time," she said, and her voice was lower now, serious, the teasing gone. "The other girls are going to start leaving soon. So I need you to stop panicking and put your cock inside me."
Tommy's hands came up to her hips. Her skin was slick with water, warm under his palms. He could see her ass, the curve of it, and between her legs—she was wet. Not from the shower. Wet in a different way, glistening, slick.
"I've never—" he started.
"I know." She reached back and took his hand, guiding it between her legs. "Neither have I. That's the point."
His fingers found her. She was soft and hot and slick, and she gasped when he touched her, pressing her forehead against the tile. He circled her entrance, felt her push back against his hand, and something in him snapped.
He lined himself up. The head of his cock pressed against her, and she reached back and grabbed his ass, pulling him forward.
"Do it," she breathed. "Tommy. Do it."
He pushed inside her.
She was tight—so tight he could barely move, her walls gripping him, squeezing him, and she gasped against the tile, her whole body going rigid. He froze.
"Are you okay—"
"Don't stop." Her voice was strained, but her hand was still on his ass, pulling him deeper. "Don't stop, Tommy. Keep going."
He pushed deeper. There was resistance, a barrier, and he felt her tense—and then it gave, and she cried out, a small sharp sound, and he was inside her to the hilt.
The water ran over them. The steam curled around them. Tommy's forehead dropped to her shoulder, and he could feel her trembling, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
"Does it hurt?" he whispered.
"A little." Her voice was thick. "But I don't care. Move."
He moved. Slowly at first, pulling out almost all the way and pushing back in, and she made a sound—a low, breathy moan that got swallowed by the water. Her walls gripped him, hot and tight, and Tommy's hands found her hips, holding her steady as he thrust into her.
She pushed back against him. Her ass met his hips with each thrust, and she reached back and grabbed his hand, pulling it around to her chest. Her breast filled his palm, her nipple hard under his thumb, and she moaned again, louder this time.
"Faster," she breathed.
He went faster. The water sprayed over them, the tile slick under his feet, and the sound of their bodies coming together was wet and rhythmic, lost in the hiss of the shower. Tommy's whole world narrowed to this—to Sara's body under his hands, to the heat of her around his cock, to the way she gasped and moaned and pushed back against him.
"I'm close," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Tommy, I'm—"
"Me too." He could feel it building, the pressure coiling in his belly, the heat spreading. "Sara, I can't—I don't want to—"
"Don't pull out."
The words hit him like a shock. "What?"
"Don't pull out." She reached back and grabbed his ass, pulling him deeper, holding him there. "I want it. I want all of it. Come inside me."
"But—"
"I said don't pull out." Her voice was sharp, commanding. "Fuck me, Tommy. Come inside me. I want to feel it."
He couldn't argue. He couldn't think. She was so tight, so hot, and she was clenching around him, pulling him deeper, and he was so close—
"Sara—"
Her legs locked around him. Her whole body clenched, and she cried out, a quiet, strangled sound, and Tommy felt her come undone around him—her walls clamping down, milking him, pulling him over the edge with her.
He came inside her. The heat surged through him, his cock pulsing, emptying into her, and he buried his face in her shoulder and groaned against her skin as she shuddered around him. The water ran over them, the steam curled around them, and for a long moment there was nothing but the sound of their breathing and the hiss of the showerhead.
Neither of them moved. Tommy's forehead was pressed against her shoulder, his body still trembling, his cock still inside her. Sara's hand was on his, her fingers laced through his, and she was breathing hard, her back rising and falling against his chest.
Finally, she turned her head. Her blue eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed, and she smiled at him—a soft, private smile that was different from her usual teasing grin.
"See?" she whispered. "Nothing to panic about."