CHAPTER 81: HER ~ (R-18)

I kissed down her collarbone, letting my lips trail after a bead of water gliding along her skin. I followed that drop like it was a map to heaven—down the hollow of her throat, over the swell of her chest—until I caught it with my tongue, slow and deliberate.

And that’s when her legs finally gave out.

She gasped and grabbed for me like she needed something to survive it, her fingers digging into my shoulders. I let her fall into me, hands leaving her wrists to wrap around her waist, guiding her body like it belonged to me already. My thumbs slid under her top, teasing the soft, heated skin just above her hips.

That’s when she moaned.

"Ahhhhhh~~~~"

Holy fuck.

That sound was the kind of thing you could sell to the gods. Raw and cracked open. Like the sound of someone waking up after years of numbness. Like she didn’t know if it hurt or healed—but she didn’t care either way.

I wanted to make her do it again. And again. And again, until the walls remembered her moans echos.

I moved slow, steady—back to her top, fingers nimble with a confidence I hadn’t earned but definitely owned now. One clean motion and the hook came undone like it’d been waiting for me.

The top slipped off her shoulders and hit the marble with a soft, soaked slap.

And then...

Fuck.

There she was.

Isabella Rodriguez—prim and polished, buttoned-up teacher, the woman who never let her smile linger too long in class. Now standing half-naked and flushed, with steam curling around her body like it wanted to worship her too.

Her breasts were full and perfect, skin damp and shining, nipples tight from a mix of cool air and the weight of my gaze. And the look on her face? Like she didn’t know whether to cry or beg or grab me by the hair and drag me to my knees.

She didn’t have to choose.

Because I was already halfway there.

Her breasts were full—soft, high, and fucking stunning. Skin dewy from the steam, a golden hue kissed with heat and vulnerability, they were nothing short of a fucking masterpiece—full, heavy, and perfectly shaped like they’d been hand-sculpted for touch. Not oversized, not petite—just right, the kind that filled your fantasy for your busty teacher; with weight and warmth and made you forget what you were saying mid-sentence.

The breast curves were soft and rich, rising with each shaky breath she took, the kind of curves that told you she was all woman—ripe, mature, untouched in all the ways that mattered. Her skin was warm bronze, kissed by the sun but softened by the steam, glowing under the bathroom light like silk dipped in gold.

Droplets clung to her like pearls—slowly tracing down the round swells, dripping off the under-curve where the weight of them created the most delicious shadows.

And then there were her nipples.

Dark rose in color—like dusky petals at twilight. Not too small, not oversized—just bold, firm, slightly bent and alive. Her areolae were slightly wide, smooth-edged with that soft, natural gradient that looked airbrushed by God. A deep, sensual brown that darkened the closer it got to the center, standing out against the golden tone of her skin like secrets waiting to be told.

Her nipples themselves were thick, swollen, stiff with need—pushed forward by the chill in the air but more by the heat between us. They practically pulsed under my gaze, begging to be touched, kissed, suckled.

The kind of nipples you couldn’t ignore if you tried—demanding attention with every heartbeat, every shaky rise of her chest.

I stared for a long moment, letting the silence hum around us.

"Fuck..." I whispered, reverent, like I’d just stumbled onto sacred ground.

She made a soft, strangled sound in her throat—half embarrassment, half burning desire—and her arms twitched like she didn’t know whether to cover herself or pull me closer.

I didn’t let her do either.

I raised one hand, slow and sure, and cupped her breast—full and warm and so soft it made my knees weak. My thumb brushed over the nipple, barely grazing, and she jumped, a breath catching in her throat like I’d just shot lightning through her nerves.

She looked down at me with wide, glossy eyes, and I saw it—plain as day.

She’d never been looked at like this.

Never been touched like she was precious and sinful at the same time.

And I wasn’t even close to done.

I didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

I just leaned in and took her into my mouth—slowly, fully—my lips wrapping around one perfect nipple while my tongue circled, teased, tasted. She gasped so sharply her whole body jerked against the wall. Her hands shot up, grabbing onto my shoulders like she was trying to survive it, but she had no idea I was only just beginning.

Her skin was hot against my tongue, slick with steam and need. I sucked gently, then let go with a soft pop, just to drag the flat of my tongue across her areola again. I watched her shudder. Watched her head fall back and her eyes flutter like she was floating somewhere between earth and something holier.

And then I switched to the other breast.

Worship was too soft a word for what I was doing.

This wasn’t just about pleasure—it was about rewriting the memory of every man who’d ever touched her without truly seeing her. My mouth was devoted, tongue tracing slow, wet circles, lips pressing soft kisses between licks. I rolled her nipple between my lips, then sucked again—deep, slow pulls that had her hips twitching like I was already inside her.

And my hand? That’s where the real magic started.

The other hand slid down her side—palm broad, fingers spread—moving like it already knew her body better than she did. I traced the curve of her waist, then dipped lower, dragging my fingers over her stomach, slow and firm.

Every place I touched left her trembling. Her muscles clenched beneath my fingers, hips rolling slightly toward me like her body was chasing something it didn’t even understand yet.

Because my touch wasn’t normal.

It wasn’t just skin-to-skin.

It knew her. Felt what she craved. That system-gifted ability activated like a spark—drawing out every buried ache, every hidden desire, like I was peeling layers of her open with nothing but a graze.

And she felt it.

Her moan broke right out of her, loud and raw and helpless. Like I’d just stolen her breath and fed it back as fire. My fingers hadn’t even gone between her legs yet—just skimming her hips, her thighs, tracing the sensitive skin where her towel still clung.

Her legs buckled again, this time for real, and I caught her with my hand at the small of her back, pulling her tight to my chest. Her breast pressed to my mouth, and I kissed it again—tender now, reverent—tongue gliding over her nipple like I was painting her into memory.

"You feel that?" I whispered against her skin, voice thick with heat. "That’s what happens when a man knows exactly how to touch you."

She couldn’t answer.

Not with words.

She just whimpered, breath hitched, thighs pressing together like she was holding back a flood.

So I let my hand slide lower.

Over the curve of her ass, fingers digging in just enough to make her arch into me, and then across the front—dragging the edge of the towel down inch by inch, until it hung dangerously low on her hips. My thumb slipped just under the waistband, teasing.

Her entire body was begging, even if her mouth couldn’t form the words yet.

And I wasn’t done worshipping.

Not until she collapsed from being seen, touched, and known in a way no one ever had.

"Say it," I commanded, voice low and steady, my bronze eyes locked on hers like a tether she couldn’t pull away from. "Say you want more."

Her breath hitched, chest rising fast. "I... I want more," she gasped—like a confession spilling out in slow motion, heavy with need and something rawer beneath it.

That was all I needed.