The writing Refuge

“The hotter, the better,” she whispers as she turns on the faucet. Soon, steam rises from the shower and clings to the mirror. Eyeing the water droplets rolling down my neck, she reaches for the shampoo and lets it pool in the middle of her soft hand. Washing her hair always comes before I do.
I silently wait until her focus is all on me. She rinses the shampoo many times before applying the conditioner to her long, thick locks. I’m glad she won’t take the time to rinse it out until she is all finished with me.
Taking me by surprise, her hand comes up quickly to my head, and I cannot resist; I bite the tip of her finger. Surprise flashes in her eyes. She shakes her hand and then inspects it for blood. It was just a little nibble.
Then, as if she forgot I was there, she started lathering with her favorite lavender creamy foam. Her gaze slowly turned my way once more, and I couldn’t be more ready for what was about to happen next.
Not bothering to run her hands under the water, she moves towards me, slow and deliberately this time, transferring the foam from her hand all the way around me. It’s slippery, and she nearly loses her grip. Starting out slow, she guides me over her curvy parts and then back and forth so vigorously I can’t help it, I let her have it.
” F—-” she shouts, dropping me to the bottom of the shower. My head detaches and slides to the drain. Blood is flowing in the water from the side of her knee. Angry now, she picks up the broken pieces of me and slides open the curtain, tossing them toward the trash.
Rummaging in the drawer and then finding another razor, she finishes shaving her legs.