The door didn't creak. He'd oiled it himself the week before.
Roman slipped into the bathroom like breath. No sound. No hesitation.
She was already in the shower, humming softly — a tune he couldn't name but had heard enough to recognize. He stood by the mirror, eyes fixed on the frosted glass that blurred her body like an erotic painting, water trailing down the curve of her spine, the backs of her knees, the round weight of her breasts flattened against the spray.
She tilted her head back. The water rolled through her hair like dark silk. Her lips parted. Her throat arched. The sound she made — soft, sighing, unknowing — made his cock twitch under his belt.
He didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
She was shaving, one leg up on the edge of the tub. He watched the slow drag of the razor across her thigh. The steadiness of her hand. The trust she had in this place — this false belief in privacy.
She rinsed, rubbed lotion into her arms while still wet, then stepped out — towel already in hand, wrapping herself without even glancing his way.
He was right there.
She was ten steps from him.
The towel clung too high. She never wrapped it well. It slipped a little when she reached up for something. He watched the swell of one breast appear and vanish again like a cruel tease.
She didn't even know she was offering herself to him.
She grabbed a clean pair of panties and dropped them on the counter, reaching for her robe.
He took two silent steps forward.
When she turned toward the mirror, he'd already stepped to the side — one with the shadows, heart steady as stone.
She wiped the steam with her palm. Her face appeared — flushed, damp, perfect. She frowned faintly at her reflection, fingers tracing a spot near her lips. Roman stared at those fingers. Imagined them stroking his jaw. Digging into his back.
Her panties were still on the counter.
He waited until she turned away, reaching into the cabinet, and then he took one step closer — just close enough to let his gloved fingers brush them. Quick. Silent. Barely there. But enough. Enough to leave a scent. A memory. A mark.
She dropped her towel. Naked again.
He swallowed hard.
Her hips curved like they were built to be held. Her thighs begged for bruises. There were marks already — from her own hands, maybe. But they wouldn't last.
His would.
Soon.
She pulled on the robe, adjusted the waist, and left the room.
He stood alone now.
Silent.
Hard.
The mirror still held her warmth.
He leaned close. Pressed his lips against the corner. A kiss she'd never know about.
Not tonight.
But he'd been inside her space now. In her steam. Her breath. Her underwear.
He hadn't taken her yet.
But she was no longer untouched.
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