The day was shit. Fired. Fucking canned. I’d texted Charlotte the news, a digital scream into the void. Came home to an empty apartment. Fine. Whatever.

I ran the bath, scalding hot, and sank in. The steam fogged the mirrors, the world blurring. I must have dozed off, the water cooling around my aching body.

The dream started sweet. A warm, tight grip sliding up and down my dick, a perfect, slick rhythm. I moaned into the darkness, my hips giving a lazy thrust.

But the feeling was too real. The calloused pad of a thumb swirling over my swollen head. The firm, knowing stroke of a fist around my shaft. This was no dream.

My eyes flew open. Pitch black. The bathroom light was off, only the low thrum of a synthwave track pulsing in the air. My cock was enveloped in a wet, slippery fist, pumping me slowly.

“Shhh,” a voice whispered, hot against my ear. Charlotte. Her tits pressed against my back, her nipples hard points through the thin fabric of her top. She was in the tub with me, curled around me like a possessive shadow.

“You’ve had a hell of a day,” she murmured, her other hand coming up to cover my mouth, her fingers tasting of salt and her perfume. “Let me take care of you.”

Her hand on my dick was magic. She used the bathwater as lube, her grip perfect—not too tight, not too loose. She focused on the head, her thumb massaging the sensitive slit, spreading the pre-c