For 30+ Advance/Early chapters :p
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The shower sputtered off, plunging the small, steamy room into a relative quiet, the only sound the soft dripping from the faucet and their own ragged breaths. They stood in the warm, humid darkness, their bodies slick and pressed together, held up by the tiled wall and a profound, bone-deep exhaustion. The frantic, exorcising passion had washed away the chaos of their battle, leaving behind a clean, raw, and aching need.
"I can't feel my legs," Peter whispered, his voice a hoarse rasp against her wet skin.
"Then I shall lend you mine," Diana murmured, her voice a low, melodic thrum.
She unwrapped herself from him slowly and stepped out of the shower first, a goddess emerging from the mists. The cool air of the room hit her wet skin, and she shivered, goosebumps rising on her arms. Peter followed, his own body trembling, not from cold, but from the aftershocks of their climax and the sheer, overwhelming sight of her. Water dripped from the ends of her dark hair, tracing paths down her back, over the powerful curve of her hips.
Without a word, he moved behind her, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her back against his chest. He was her shield now. They stood there for a long moment, two naked, dripping bodies reflected as a single entity in the fogged mirror.
"Bed," he managed to say, the word a plea.
She leaned back into him, a soft, assenting sigh escaping her lips.
He scooped her up into his arms, the act taking every last ounce of his superhuman strength. She was surprisingly heavy, dense with a power that had nothing to do with her physical size. She let out a soft, surprised gasp, her arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as he carried her out of the bathroom.
He laid her gently on the cool, clean sheets of her bed, a stark white canvas for her flushed, water-slicked skin. The dim light from her desk lamp cast long, soft shadows, catching the sheen of moisture on her body. He didn't join her right away. Instead, he knelt by the side of the bed, a supplicant before his deity. He was looking at her not just as Peter looking at Diana, but as the man who had witnessed her hold back the void, and the sight left him breathless with a reverence that bordered on worship.
"You were incredible today," he whispered, his voice thick with an emotion he couldn't name. He reached out, his hand hovering for a moment before gently tracing a droplet of water from her collarbone, down over the full swell of her breast, to her hard, pebbled nipple.
"We were," she corrected, her voice a soft, breathy thing. Her eyes were dark, heavy-lidded with a mixture of exhaustion and a deep, simmering desire.
He leaned forward, his mouth replacing his hand, and took her nipple, suckling gently. She gasped, her back arching, her hands fisting in the sheets. The taste of her, clean and sweet, was a heady intoxication. But it wasn't enough. He needed more. He needed to taste the very essence of the woman who had become the center of his universe.
His lips and tongue blazed a wet trail down her body, over the flat, hard plane of her stomach, past the faint, silvery battle scars that he was coming to adore. He moved between her legs, parting her gently. She was already slick, her scent a wild, musky perfume that filled his head and short-circuited every rational thought.
He took her into his mouth, and the world dissolved into pure sensation. He worshipped her with a slow, deliberate reverence, his tongue learning the secrets of her body. He felt the muscles in her thighs tremble and tighten, heard her breathy moans begin to build into a low, keening song.
As he pleasured her, he watched her. Her head was thrown back against the pillows, her eyes squeezed shut, her lips parted. And then her hands, which had been gripping the sheets, began their own exploration. She reached up, her own fingers finding her breasts, cupping their weight, her thumbs stroking and teasing her already sensitive nipples. She was a vision of pure, unrestrained female pleasure, completely lost in the feelings he was giving her, a willing participant in her own undoing.
Her moans grew louder, deeper, the sounds a raw, guttural music that vibrated through the mattress. "Peter," she cried out, the name a ragged, desperate plea. He felt her body tensing, coiling like a spring, and he quickened his rhythm, his tongue and fingers working in a perfect, devouring concert, driving her higher.
She was on the very edge, a single, shuddering breath away from release, when he stopped.
Her eyes snapped open, a look of wild, questioning frustration in them. He moved up her body, his own erection hard and aching, pressing against her thigh.
"Inside you," he breathed, his voice a raw command. "I need to be inside you. Now."
She didn't answer with words. She simply pulled him down to her, her mouth crashing against his in a bruising, possessive kiss. She rolled, reversing their positions with a startling, fluid strength, pushing him onto his back and straddling his hips.
She guided him to her entrance, her slick heat a searing welcome, and took him deep inside her with a long, shuddering moan that was part pleasure, part relief. She leaned forward, bracing her hands on his chest, and began to move. The rhythm was slow, deep, and powerful, each downward grind sending a shockwave of pure pleasure through him.
He watched, mesmerized, as her breasts, heavy and wet, swayed with each deliberate motion. He reached up, cupping their weight, his thumbs finding her hard nipples, and she threw her head back, a loud, unrestrained cry tearing from her throat. It was not a sound of pain, but of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. It was a sound that seemed too big for the small room, a sound that pressed against the very walls, a glorious, defiant declaration of their passion that she made no attempt to stifle.
He met her rhythm, his hips thrusting up to meet her down, driving himself deeper. The sounds filled the room—the wet slap of their bodies, her loud, beautiful moans, his own name a ragged prayer on her lips. Seeing her like this, hearing her like this, so completely and gloriously undone, shattered the last of his control.
With a final, deep thrust, he poured himself into her, his own climax a violent, shuddering release, his voice joining hers in a final, shared cry that echoed in the profound, ringing silence that followed. She collapsed onto his chest, a warm, boneless weight of pure satisfaction, their hearts hammering a frantic, perfect rhythm against each other. They were a beautiful, glorious, chaotic mess, and in the quiet of her room, they had found their own perfect, sacred peace.
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