Ant’s grin widens as he turns, tilting his head back under the spray while absentmindedly stroking his cock. Averting my eyes, I continue to rinse him off.
“It wasawesome. Hopper likes the screaming, but I don’t. Just seeing it in his eyes. Like…the fear?Glorious. You’re going to have to teach me that ice-pick trick.”
“Uh, sure.”
Letting go of his cock, he faces me, raising his arms. I take the hint and sweep the sprayer down his neck, chest, and sides. He inhales sharply when the high-pressure spray reaches his nipples, then turns around, placing his palms on the shower tiles. He’s pretty clean by this point, but I start with the back of his head and make my way down, just to be sure.
Just as I reach his waistline, he continues the conversation. “If you prefer to go in order of shitheads, I’d love to take out the island next. Though…I know it was a challenge to set up the logistics. It’s okay if we have to leave it where it is on the schedule—”
“No,” I say firmly, spraying off his hips before moving down to his thighs. He shifts, widening his legs. I aim toward his inner thighs, sweeping the spray up and down. His balls are so cute that I reverse course and move down to his calves, cursing the thoughts in my head.
He lifts a foot, and I rinse it, swallowing thickly when he wiggles his toes. He stretches side to side, his hands landing on his hips. With a small look over his shoulder, he pushes his ass out, his hands subtly spreading his cheeks.
Shifting the showerhead to massaging, I rinse him again from the top of his head down his back, sweeping briefly down the line between his cheeks, passing over his hole, taint, and balls.
An image as vivid as any I’ve come up with attaches itself to my senses. Me kneeling behind Ant under the thundering water, surrounded only by the smell of clean skin and soap, his small, soft ass in my enormous hands.
I imagine groaning as I spread him wide, spearing him deeply with my tongue, tasting his body as it squeezes around me. Cries of pleasure tumbling down with the cascade of water, the smell of desire rising as he gets closer and closer to going over the edge, the tension in his perfect muscles, the way his hands cover mine…
“Okay, you should be able to take care of the rest,” I say, fumbling as I return the sprayer to the holder and yank the shower door closed. “I’ll, uh, get dressed and wait for you out here.”
“Okay,” he says, his voice small and muffled by the water.
Avoiding his bloody footprints on the rolled-out garbage bags, I walk into the open space of the cabin, knowing atrocity after atrocity was hosted here. It’s an ice-cold bucket of water on my wandering thoughts.
I pull out my phone and scroll to Nacho’s name. For some reason, I don’t think he’ll make a joke of it.
Me:Do you have a minute?
Nacho:Sure. What’s up? How’s the kill-a-thon going?
Me:Fine. Mostly.
Nacho:Uh-oh.
Me:You were right. He definitely gets turned on by the killing.
Which is not at all about me. Nacho doesn’t need to know about the rimming scene that played out in my head. Or how much I like Ant’s petite stature, or how I can only imagine how fucking sweet his skin would taste on my tongue…
Nope.
This is about a weird pathology I’ve never seen before, and I need more information.
Nacho:Are you saying something happened between the two of you?
Me:Of course not.
Me:He needed help cleaning off the blood, and he was hard the whole time.
Me:It was weird.
Nacho:Not really. Murder is visceral, and he’s killing people who controlled his sexual expression.
Nacho:He’s probably feeling somewhat liberated.
Nacho:Bram isn’t usually on the business end of these ops, but if he has to defend himself or someone else, he always needs relief after.
Me:I don’t want to hear about your sex life.
