My Shower Was Extra Steamy This Morning

Not just the kind that fogs glass,
the kind that lingers
even after the water stops,
curling into my skin
like it refuses to leave.

A drop slid over my shoulder,
and my breath caught, sharp, shallow,
a tremor I did not try to hide.
The heat pressed into me
from somewhere deeper than the shower,
awakening a pulse
I had not named yet.

Steam wrapped around me,
soft and insistent,
pressing against every curve,
every hollow I had been holding,
the places that knew
they had waited long enough.

My hands moved without thought,
tracing lines from collarbone to ribs,
from the hollow beneath my breasts
to the ache gathering low
between my thighs,
pulling, coaxing, demanding
that I pay attention
to the way I respond.

The water slicked my skin
like it was learning me,
pressing, sliding,
while my fingers whispered
over the parts I touch
only when no one is watching.

Each pulse built,
breath hitching, knees weakening,
steam thickening around me,
my body forgetting where it ends
and desire begins.

I stepped out,
towel heavy in my hands,
steam clinging to hair and skin,
to the small hollow at my neck
where shivers still ran.

Tiles were cold beneath my feet,
but not enough to quell
the heat still pulsing inside me,
the secret tremor
I carried into the morning air.

I caught my reflection
and, for a moment,
saw someone entirely undone,
soft and dangerous at once,
a body still humming
with a hunger
that had no intention of fading.

I leaned against the counter,
hands trembling slightly,
letting the memory of every curve,
every slick line the shower kissed awake,
roll through me like waves
that refused to break.

Breath came slow, uneven,
pulse still racing,
and the room held me,
warm, aware, breathless,
as if it knew
that desire does not leave quietly.