They were lovers with a stolen moment, then - the way she breathed, the way he carefully used his confidence and towering advantages. She had that beautiful look, quiet excitement and some denial inside a blush. He was getting to her, using tricks he'd saved for other women until now. She was as susceptible as others, but Iris had forever shown herself to be the very epitome of different. He was sure he'd never wash the want for her from his tongue. She wanted his closeness, and he was willing to exploit that for his own urges. Truly like lovers, then.<br/><br/>She let him touch her, and he was happy to find her water-light clues. It was unbearable to have her suddenly naked and then a deeper color under her eyes. He wasn't supposed to resist this, he was sure. If she wanted it, it could be any other tryst. She'd let him. A little maneuvering and she'd have her back against the wall, hips ready for him and legs out. Wouldn't that be good enough, to wear her thighs around him while her beautiful body was taught how well he knew the craft of bringing pleasure? It could be filthy, also, if it only wasn't leathal. But he didn't want that. That's not what angels are for.<br/><br/>His limb was growing when she bent to do what she was told. She still trusted him, the details of her vertebrae shown to him was proof of that. He'd swallowed a groan and fought the impulse to simply have her when she offered so plainly. She fell splendidly, and he stared at the rings when the plastic strained to save her, but still ripping, hole by hole, until she landed on the bottom, after all. He cussed to himself when she laid there, made still by the small trauma. What a study she was in all his darkness, and how much he wanted it.<br/><br/>He worked fast, and by the time her little breathed miseries announced that she was returning, pleasant temperature liquid was already cradling half of her. He'd wrapped her complicated in the curtain, its clear design letting him see all of her all the same. It shouldn't be impossible for her to get out, but he wished she wouldn't, as the waterline ate more of her, adding to its own depth from the faucet she'd helped turn. When she inevitably would start fighting for herself, he'd climb into the tub with her, rolling up the curtain like a skirt from her legs, parting her to see what had been willing before.<br/><br/>If she was being successful in her escape, he'd lance her, to reposition her. In lifting her hip her head would also naturally incline deeper into the water. And, she'd need oxygen at a more acute rate if he  got her heart pounding faster. He'd slow down if when she was drowning on her own, and then if she fought, fuck her with thumps to her head against the wall of the tub, distracting her, disturbing her while the curtain made its sounds, half drowned too by  the lovely clear little ocean. He desired to see her struggle, and what expressions she'd make, hoping she'd terminally fail to save herself. He'd never loved a woman like this.