Martyn’s (Patreon)

I hadn’t even meant to touch the shower—honestly. I’d just stepped in to “test the water,” which is what I told myself right before my fingertips brushed the tap and the whole thing sputtered to life. Warm droplets scattered across my shoulder, and I couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out of me.

The tiles were cool against my palms as I leaned in, steadying myself. My hair, still wild from the morning, fell in loose curls down my back, catching the thin mist rising from the showerhead. The blue lingerie felt bold in the bright white light of the hotel bathroom — almost too bold. Which, of course, only made me enjoy it more.

I reached up, fingers closing around the showerhead like I was trying to tame it. Really, though, I just liked the stretch, the curve it drew through my body, the way it made the moment feel a little rebellious — me, in full colour, refusing to blend into a room made of clean white squares.

I could hear Moroi’s breath catch the second he raised the camera.

Not that I looked back. I didn’t need to.

I knew what the scene looked like:

water beading along my spine, curls tumbling, blue straps drawing lines across my skin, the tilt of my hips saying I was fully aware of the picture I was making.

And maybe I leaned into it.

Just a little.

The sign on the wall told me to put the shower curtain inside the bath before taking a shower. I smiled at it, slow and sly.

If the hotel wanted things neat and proper, they’d picked the wrong girl.

I wasn’t here to behave.

I was here to play with the light, with the water, with the moment — to let my pose hold just enough tease to make the shutter click faster.

And from the sound of it,

it worked.