The water was no longer just warm; it was a living thing, thick and languid, sliding over their skin like heated silk.
Every breath Robin took tasted of chlorine, salt, and the faint metallic trace of Minato's blood where she'd bitten his lower lip too hard.
The sun had dipped low enough that the light fractured across the pool in molten copper, turning every droplet on his shoulders into liquid gold that clung, trembled, then fell in slow, hypnotic trails down the ridges of muscle and scar tissue she couldn't stop touching.
Minato's skin burned under her palms, sun-scorched and fever-hot, stretched tight over steel. She could feel the thrum of his pulse beneath her fingertips: fast, predatory, matching the frantic beat between her own legs.
When she dragged her nails down the groove of his spine, the sound he made was low and guttural, vibrating straight through her sternum into her core.
His hand at the nape of her neck was merciless. Wet hair twisted around his knuckles, strands pulling just enough to sting, tilting her head back until the column of her throat was completely exposed.
Cool air kissed the wet skin there; then his mouth descended, teeth scraping, tongue soothing, teeth again, until every nerve ending flared white-hot.
He sucked hard just below her jaw, a deliberate, wet pull that echoed in her clit like a second heartbeat.
The bruise bloomed instantly, dark and obscene, and the faint copper taste of her own skin filled her mouth when she gasped.
Between her thighs, the water felt heavier, syrupy, resisting every tiny roll of her hips.
The soaked scrap of her bikini bottoms had ridden up, wedged tight between swollen folds, and the ridge of his cock, thick, rigid, and impossibly hot even through two layers of fabric, dragged along her with every breath he took.
The friction was maddening: slick cloth, slick water, slick need. She could feel herself pulsing against him, a helpless, rhythmic clench that made obscene little wet sounds beneath the surface whenever she tried to chase more.
Minato's palm was still clamped over her mound, fingers spread wide, owning every inch. The heel of his hand ground slow, deliberate circles, pressing the soaked fabric against her clit until sparks detonated behind her eyes.
She was so sensitive now that even the gentle lap of the pool against her inner thighs felt like another mouth.
When he flexed his fingers, the tips brushed the edge of where she ached to be filled, teasing, never entering, just tracing the shape of her through the barrier until she sobbed with frustration.
His scent was everywhere: sun-warmed skin, faint cedar and ozone from the lightning that always seemed to live under his surface, and now the darker note of raw arousal. It flooded her lungs, made her dizzy.
She buried her face in the hollow of his throat and inhaled like a drowning woman, tongue darting out to taste the salt on his skin. The flavor burst across her tongue: sharp, addictive, him.
Every time he spoke, the words vibrated against her lips, her collarbone, the shell of her ear.
"Listen," he growled, voice rough as broken glass dragged over velvet. "Hear how quiet the world just got? Even the wind stopped so it could listen to you fall apart for me."
And she did hear it: the sudden hush of leaves, the distant cicadas silenced, only the wet slap of water against tile and the ragged, desperate sounds tearing from her own throat.
His teeth closed over the lobe of her ear, tugging until she whimpered, then soothed it with a slow lick that sent shivers racing down every limb.
"I can feel you dripping down my wrist, Robin," he whispered, breath scalding. "Soaking through your bikini, soaking my hand, running over my fingers like you're trying to mark me back. Greedy girl."
She was. God, she was. Her thighs trembled around his hips, muscles burning from the effort of holding herself open for him, water and her own slick making everything slippery, obscene.
When he suddenly pressed two fingers hard against her entrance, still outside the fabric, the pressure was so perfect she saw stars. A broken, keening sound escaped her, muffled against his shoulder as she bit down to keep from screaming.
The sunset painted them in fire: crimson bleeding into gold across his cheekbones, catching on the wet ends of his lashes, turning the droplets on her breasts into tiny, shimmering rubies.
She looked down and watched his tongue drag slow and deliberate over one stiff nipple, fabric dark and translucent now, clinging like a second skin.
The sight alone nearly undid her: his golden head bent to her breast, mouth open and hungry, water beading on his lips before he sucked her in again with a wet, filthy sound that echoed across the silent pool.
Robin's entire body was a live wire: skin flushed and hypersensitive, every breath a shudder, every heartbeat echoing between her legs where he still held her on that brutal, perfect edge.
The world had narrowed to heat, salt, teeth, tongue, the iron grip of his hands, and the thick, throbbing proof of how much he wanted her pressed against her core.
She was trembling so hard the water rippled in perfect circles around them, each one carrying the faint, musky scent of her arousal to the cooling evening air.
And still he didn't let her fall.
Not yet.
He was savoring her like wine, drawing out every note of desperation until she was nothing but sensation: burning, dripping, aching, owned.
Utterly, gloriously his.
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