Friends

Chapter 72

Marc's POV:

Steam curls through the air as the water heats up, fogging the glass and wrapping the bathroom in a kind of warmth that feels almost sacred. Jasmine steps in slowly, still trembling, still wrecked, and I guide her under the stream like she might break if I let go. She leans into me without hesitation, trusting me completely, and that alone does something to my chest I can't fully explain.

I reach for the wash cloth and lather it with body wash, then start with her back.

She gasps lightly, turning her head just enough to peek at me over her shoulder. There's a pause—soft, curious—like she doesn't quite know what to do with the care I'm offering her.

"Oh my God... are you really washing me?" she says, eyes wide with surprise. "I thought you meant we were going to wash ourselves." She lets out a soft laugh, then adds more seriously, "I've never had someone wash me before. Not like this. Not tenderly. Not like they actually wanted to."

I raise an eyebrow, half amused, half stunned. "Glad I could be the first for something else," I say, grinning.

She scrunches her nose and tilts her head. "Wait—what do you mean first for something else?"

I chuckle under my breath. "I mean, from the way you reacted to only twenty minutes passing, and the sounds you were making, and the way you looked afterward? Plus, just from what I've overheard from you and Kendrick... it's kinda obvious you haven't had sex like that before."

She blinks at me, then lets out a laugh and swats my arm. "You're such a pervert."

Then all of a sudden it hits me all at once.

It hits me all at once: I just had the most raw, intense, degrading, mind-blowing sex of my life with the girl I've been fantasizing about since the day we met. The same girl who used to giggle in the hallway and make my stomach flip. The same girl I used to lay in bed thinking about, listening through thin walls and wondering if she'd ever see me the way I saw her.

And now she's here.

In my shower.

Letting me wash the sweat and cum off her skin like it means something. Like I mean something.

My hands move slowly. Reverent. I wash her arms, her shoulders, her neck—trailing the cloth across skin that glistens under the warm spray, skin that still bears the faintest marks of everything we just shared. Her body is breathtaking, even more so now. Soft curves, flushed skin, muscles twitching slightly beneath the surface like echoes of the pleasure still coursing through her.

I run the wash cloth gently across her chest, catching the rise and fall of her breath, then down her back again, tracing the lines of her spine like they're a map I never want to forget. Then I kneel so I can run it over her thighs, my fingers brushing her soft, strong legs, memorizing the feel of every dip, every contour.

I take my time, not because I want anything from her, but because this moment deserves to be slow. She deserves to be cherished. Worshipped. Loved like she's the most precious thing in the world—because she is.

This woman just gave me everything.

Her body. Her submission. Her trust.

And now it's my turn to show her how much that means to me.

Because I know she hasn't always been treated this way. I've seen it. Heard it. I've pieced together the aftermath—the way she's been used, taken from, and discarded like the act itself was the only thing that mattered. But it's not. It never should be. I want to give her the treatment she deserves.

Being given access to Jasmine's body in that way—it's not a right. It's an honor. A gift. And when someone gives that to you, the least you can do is make sure they feel safe afterward. Seen. Taken care of.

Aftercare isn't optional. It's essential. Especially with someone like Jasmine, who gave me everything and asked for nothing in return. So I'm going to give it back to her in every gentle stroke of this washcloth, in every kiss I press to her skin, in every silent promise I make to never take her for granted.

I press a soft kiss to the middle of her back, just below her shoulder blades, and linger there.

I don't think she realizes what she's done to me. How she's changed me. How she's ruined me for anything less.

Because now that I know what it feels like to have all of her—to hold her, dominate her, care for her—there's no going back. No one else could ever compare.

She's it.

She's always been it.

And as she leans her head back against my chest, a soft sigh escaping her lips, I realize I'd do anything to protect this. To protect her.

Not just in moments like this.

But in all the moments after.

I smirk. "You know you tapped out, right?"

She twists slightly to glance back at me, her eyes wide with protest. "I did not!"

I raise an eyebrow. "Then it was someone else screaming and saying they couldn't handle it anymore?"

"Maybe," she mutters quickly, flustered.

"So what I'm hearing is next time you're tapping out, I should keep going until I get a full confession? Multiple full confessions?" I ask, seeing her eyes fill with fear

"I didn't say all that," she murmurs

"That's what I'm hearing," I laugh

"Okay, fine, meanie. But give me a few rounds to get used to your size, and you'll be the one tapping out."

I laugh. "Sure, princess. Whatever helps you sleep tonight."

She huffs and turns forward again, but I can see the corners of her mouth twitching, trying not to smile. That's fine. She can pretend all she wants. But we both know the truth.

She turns back to me a few seconds later, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "You said you could cum more, right?"

I raise an eyebrow. "Yeah."

She leans forward, letting her lips linger against my skin, planting soft, teasing kisses down my chest, one after another. Her hand snakes between us, warm and deliberate, wrapping around my softening dick with a grip that's both gentle and commanding. She doesn't rush. Instead, she strokes me slowly—deliberately—her thumb brushing along my tip every now and then like she knows exactly what she's doing. I can feel myself getting harder with every stroke, the heat between us rising again, thick with tension. Her eyes flick up to meet mine, playful and challenging, like she knows she has me exactly where she wants me.

"Can I thank him for taking care of me earlier?" she whispers.

Before I can say anything, she smirks up at me and sinks to her knees. Then she takes me into her mouth.

Before I can say anything, she smirks up at me and sinks to her knees, her eyes never leaving mine. There's a playfulness in her gaze, but something reverent too—as if this moment is as much for her as it is for me.

She presses a kiss to my tip first. Then another. Her tongue teases the sensitive underside before she finally takes me into her mouth—slow, warm, deliberate.

I suck in a breath, gripping the edge of the sink for balance. The way she moves, the way she moans softly as I fill her—it's not just pleasure, it's intimacy. Worship. Gratitude.

And as she begins to move, deeper, slower, more certain with each stroke, I realize—this isn't just sex.

It's a thank you.

And fuck, it might be the best thank you I've ever received.

I look down at her, completely captivated. Her lips wrapped around me, her hands braced on my thighs, her lashes fluttering every time I twitch in her mouth.

And I know, without a doubt—

This girl might just ruin me.