"And if I am?" I asked, devoting my attention to adjusting the dial rather than rubbing my body all over the extremely large and naked man in front of me. So,sobig. The only saving grace was him facing away from me, blind to the heart-eyes gaze I shot at his backside. Under different circumstances, I would've ordered him to touch his toes while I licked that ass but this vintage shower stall was too narrow for anything of that nature and we weren't in here for that anyway. I wasn't here to lick anyone's ass tonight. Nope, none of that. I was here, naked and wet and wedged into a vinyl time capsule from the 1970s with some chest hair and good hands on Valentine's—for skin care.
"Then I'd like to know where you're going," he said. "Maybe I'd like to go there with you."
"Has it occurred to you that you're not invited?"
"Has it occurred to you we're showering together? That's gotta count for something as far as your Friday night plans go."
"Part of your problem is the water temperature," I said, shamelessly changing the subject. Maybe it was in keeping with the topic. I didn't know. All I knew was my cock was starving for attention. "It's way too hot. You're scorching your skin."
Wes turned his head to the side but kept his eyes cast down as he said, "I need it hot."
I ran my hands over his shoulders, down his spine, settling on his waist. "You're not going to put an end to the dry skin if you continue boiling yourself."
"You don't understand." He sighed as he flattened his hand on the wall, leaving the other—the one usually enclosed in a brace—across his belly. "Everything fuckinghurts. All the fucking time. But the hot water…"
Hearing this from Wes was like slipping on 3D glasses. Suddenly, he wasn't a giant, rippling wall of man or an ass I wanted to taste but a warrior with wounds littering the landscape of his body. There were surgical incisions, sutures, and cuts and bruises in varied states of healing all over his back, arms, flanks. He kept his injured arm tucked close to protect himself. And I wanted to protect him too.
"It helps," I finished. "The hot water helps." He nodded, still staring at the floor. I didn't know how to interpret that. I couldn't tell if he was embarrassed or shy—though I couldn't see why he'd start with that now—but it sent tiny pinpricks stabbing at my heart. As if I needed to feel something on top of all this. "Here's what we're going to do, my friend. I'm going to use the sugar and oil mixture we whipped up in the kitchen and you're not going to play the part of the tough guy who refuses to mention anything when he's in agony while I do it. Understood?"
A noise sounded in his throat. It was rough and strained, somewhere between pain and annoyance. "Do you come by that bossy attitude honestly?"
I reached for the bowl of homemade sugar scrub waiting on the floor outside the shower. "Would it change anything if I hadn't?"
He barked out a laugh, the force of it shaking his entire body. From my vantage point, I had to imagine the bright, surprised grin on his face, the way his eyes crinkled, the clench and roll of his torso. The slight point of tongue he liked to drag across the seam of his lips. The shaft between his legs, thick and heavy for me.
"Nah, it wouldn't change anything, Tom. I'd like you just the same."
And now my cock was poking the ass I wanted to lick. Goddamn. I wasn't getting out of this with a drop of dignity intact. "Just tell me if I'm going too hard, okay?"
Another deep-belted laugh and then— "Can't promise you that."
Since my stomach was cartwheeling in my throat, I didn't respond. Couldn't. Instead, I lifted my sugar-and-oil drenched hand to the center of his back and circled my palm over his skin, following the long, corded slopes of muscle to the ridge of his shoulders down to the base of his spine. I stopped at that point but lingered there, scrubbing his waist and flanks, taking care to avoid the wound near his elbow. It was healed but only recently, the divot where skin and tissue once existed still pink and tender.
"Is this all right?" I managed, transitioning to his biceps.
"Yeah, good," he said in a broken, rusty sort of way. "Yeah, everything's good." Somewhere in my chest, a groan broke loose and floated up to my throat, where it clanged out of me like an untuned bell. "Does that mean it's good for you too?"
"Oh my god," I panted out. "Would you be serious for a minute?"
"I'm being extremely serious," Wes replied. As I sluiced warm water down his arm, he took hold of my wrist, bringing my palm to the center of his chest. This forced me closer, my front pressing against his back, my cock nestling between his cheeks, my lips grazing his shoulder, and it forced another loud groan from me. "Tom.I haven't beenseriouslike this in a long time."
I sifted my fingers through the glorious fuzz on his chest, tugging only enough to rip a low, purring howl from him as his back bowed and he slapped his hand against the wall. He didn't know it yet but there was nothing I loved more than when men turned to hungry, helpless beasts for me. When they whined and squirmed and begged in silence as they fucked the air until I took pity on them.
No, I wasn't bossy by nature. I hadn't taken up this assertive mantle after any thorough analysis of my inner workings. I'd heard no calling to dominance. In truth, I didn't enjoy this power dynamic for anything more than selected moments. I couldn't—and didn't want to—carry it off beyond these instances of quiet, needy surrender. But when it happened, the authority fit like a second skin.
Dragging my hand down his torso, my destination obvious, I said, "This is new for you." He shuddered out a breath as I closed my fist around his length and settled my free hand over the curve of his backside, my middle finger sliding down his cleft. His hips punched forward in an erratic cadence as I stroked him slow, much slower than he wanted. "Letting someone else take care of you, that is. You don't like being the one in need of tending, do you?"
"No, I fucking hate this," he wailed.
Resting my fist at his base, I asked, "You'd like me to stop?"
His answering growl and thrash almost did it for me. Just the friction of his body against mine and the way he hated this but he loved it too were nearly enough. But then he found his words, yelling, "Fuuuuuuck,fuckfuckfuck, no, don't you dare stop."
I circled my finger over his back channel, offering the barest amount of friction despite the way he clenched around me. "If you don't want me to stop, you're going to have to let me take care of you," I crooned.
"Not fair," he grumbled.
I twisted my fist down his length with as much ambivalence as I could harness, considering I was actually drooling for his dick, asking, "Why not?"
