Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
When I check the heat dial, I see it’s at one-ten. Perfect. I thumb it a notch higher, because I want the room thick with steam when she arrives. A fresh hiss emerges from the corner vent, and the cloud grows instantly, a slow-motion explosion of humidity that coats the glass in a film of condensation. It’s a microclimate engineered for sweat, submission, and the particular needs of a man who can’t resist controlling every variable, even when his own body is the experiment.
I strip down to my gym shorts—black, loose, with a worn waistband—and wipe the sweat already collecting along my ribs. I think, for a second, about just going naked. It’s not like she hasn’t seen it. But then I remember the innocence in Mary Kate’s eyes when I make her wait, the way she loves the reveal, and I keep the shorts on for her sake, for the hell of it.
I sit, hands on knees, and for a moment it’s quiet but for the staccato tick of the little clock above the door and the relentless throb of my own pulse. The air is so dense with eucalyptus it’s almost narcotic; I can feel it in my sinuses, tingling, as if it’s readying me for something wonderful and irreversible.
And then, as I stare at the gleaming sweat on my own thighs, I have a thought—not new, but sharper than before. I could tell her, tonight. I could tell Mary Kate everything: that the “medical condition” was a fabrication, that the stones were real but the pain never was, that I invented the whole protocol just to get her hands on me. I could tell her that I’ve had my eye on her since high school, and that my marriage to her mom was a ruse. I could strip myself bare, in every sense, and let her see the worst of me. Would she run? Would she dash for the hills, screaming? Or would she stay, and laugh, and thank me for giving her a way to touch me without guilt?
But the thought dissolves the moment I hear footsteps outside, muffled slightly from soft slippers, but unmistakable for their lightness. My whole body tenses in anticipation, nerves pulled tight as violin strings. She’s coming, and there is no room for honesty tonight. Only hunger.
The glass door swings open, and the white-out glare of the hall gives way to the dim, boiling glow of the sauna. Mary Kate steps in barefoot, skin flushed at her collarbones, the outline of her body blurred by the terrycloth robe cinched at the waist. Her hair is loose and damp at the ends, like she just stepped out of a shower, and her eyes are already glazed with heat. I watch her pause, toes curled against the cedar, nostrils flaring as she takes in the air.
She closes the door behind her, sealing us both in, and leans against the glass. For a second, she says nothing—just lets her eyes travel over me, from my bare chest to my abs to the tented shorts that do nothing to hide the anticipation underneath. I sense she wants to drag this out, to make a game of it.
“You really go all-out,” she says, voice soft, a little fuzzy from the heat. “Do you always use the sauna this way? Or is this a special treatment?”
I grin. “Depends on my company.”
She snorts, rolling her eyes, then pads forward until she’s standing right in front of me, close enough that I could touch her knee with a tilt of my finger. The robe gapes a little at the top, and the sweat beads on her neck, gathering in the hollow of her throat.
She holds my gaze, chin up. “It’s so hot in here,” she says, and for a moment it’s just literal, a meteorological observation, but then I see the corners of her plush pout twitch up. “I’m going to faint if I wear this thing.”
Then, Mary Kate undoes the belt and lets the robe fall open, slow and deliberate, before shrugging the fabric off entirely. It pools around her ankles, leaving her utterly naked in the amber light. There’s nothing—no bra, no panties, no hesitation. Her breasts are bare, huge and round and luminous, skin slick with heat and the faintest sheen of oil from her post-shower ritual. Her waist is narrow, hips wide, and between her legs is that delicate triangle of blonde hair I’ve come to love, glistening in the wet air. Her thighs are strong, the shape of her calves athletic, and I see a fine film of sweat already outlining every muscle, every curve.
I stare openly, drinking her in, and the effect is instantaneous: my cock lurches against the inside of my shorts, a visible twitch that even she can’t pretend not to notice. A spot of clear fluid leaks out and stains the black fabric, a dark splotch spreading over the head.