He found the rhythm, thrusting into it as I gave him much less than he wanted. "Because—because I've already met my torture quota for this quarter."
I responded with several thorough strokes and pushed a finger inside him, only enough to tease. Only enough to make my blood sizzle at the thought of pushing my cock inside him. "I'm not about to torture you, sweetheart. I just want you to earn it."
If anyone was being tortured here, it was me.
Wes's voice broke as he whispered, "Fuckfuckfuck" and as I'd expected, he dropped his shoulders, ducked his head, and took what I was giving—for a minute. Then he closed his hand around my forearm, tugged me around him until he was gazing down at me, and took both our shafts in his hand, pumping as idly as I had.
This time, I was the one whispering "Fuckfuckfuck."
With a quick wince, Wes rested his injured arm on my shoulder and closed the wisp of distance between us. "Go ahead," he growled. "Make me earn it."
Thin rivers of water ran down the midline of his chest, pooling at the place where he held us in his wide palm. God, Ilovedhands like that. Big, rough, capable.
But I'd meant it when I told him I wasn't in the mood for the daddy treatment. I wasn't going to be handled tonight.
I returned my hand to his ass, a finger brushing those sensitive pleats while his eyes turned dreamy and unfocused. With my other hand, I pried him off our erections, directed him to hold on to the shower wall, and resumed control of the torturous stroking. As I knew he would, he surged into my hand, groaning and cursing and growling as our crowns slipped against each other. And when I pushed inside him once more, his eyelids drifted shut as an appreciative groan rumbled out of him. His eyes still closed, he dragged his knuckles up my torso to my neck, cupping my jaw and sliding his fingers through my wet hair while the tip of his tongue traveled over the seam of his lips.
Then Wes kissed me, his lips hot and firm, his tongue exactly as demanding as I craved. He kissed me as I worked our cocks together, as tension gathered low in my belly, as everything inside me and everything around me boiled over and the only sensation I could identify was the steam wafting around us. He kissed me as I slipped another finger inside him, as he murmured "Fuckfuckfuck," as I fought to hold back the release tickling my spine because I was earning this as much as he was.
"If you think I can't hold out all fucking night, you're mistaken," he growled against my lips.
I caught his lower lip between my teeth. "Then it's a good thing I have three more fingers for you."
A laugh rumbled out of Wes as he said, "If this arm wasn't fucked-up, I'd nail you to the fucking wall."
There was no hiding the way my erection throbbed between us at his words. "Is that how it goes? You fuck me good and rude, and that's enough? Hard and fast like you're getting away with something?" I dragged my fingers over his most tender spot as a delirious noise rose up from his chest. "It's not enough for you, sweetheart. You want my fist in your ass and your balls slapping my leg and your dick begging my hand for mercy, and you want to work for it."
His mouth found mine as he erupted, a kiss that broke into a roar that twisted into a branding of tongues and teeth and lips. It was the roar, that primal, primitive noise that settled around us like an ancient cloak, that tipped me over the edge and then the unapologetic nip of his teeth on my skin that had everything inside me flooding out.
Surprising absolutely no one, this big puppy-dog-eyed man was a cuddler. His dick was still hard and spurting in my hand but the way he nestled his head on my shoulder and breathed lazy kisses onto my neck told me he was ready to settle in for a long, cozy snuggle. And that would be fine if not for the fact the snuggle stage was reserved for much later in my relationships. I saved it for men I considered my boyfriends, ones I'd celebrate holidays with and add their birthdays to my digital calendar. Ones I'd introduced to my friends and could imagine inviting to spend the night at my apartment.
It was a wonky way to live but logistics were my sweet spot.
I shifted us toward the spray, washing our hands and torsos and sending the evidence of this moment down the drain while he continued nuzzling me. I could wait a few minutes before enforcing my boundaries. I'd already crossed enough of them.
This type of vulnerable, intimate embrace didn't come naturally to me. I'd never say it out loud but I didn't know how to be affectionate, not in the traditional sense. I didn't know but I wanted it just the same. I wanted to be tucked under someone's arm while we sipped drinks with friends. I wanted to hold hands walking down the street. I wanted to lean into him while we rode a crammed Orange Line train and feel him hold me close to his chest.
Affection wasn't my first language but I desperately wanted to find someone for whom it was because I wanted to learn. I wanted the kind of confidence I channeled in these raw, uninhibited moments to extend to an act as simple as resting my hand on the small of his back while we ordered at a coffee shop. I wanted to feel as empowered in everyday situations as I did while stroking him in a shower.
But the trouble with wanting it, of being starved for it, was the ease with which I grew attached to every guy who offered me any kind of attention, even when I should've known better. Even when it should've been obvious I was nothing more than a body, a mouth, a cock. For some people, affection wasn't a language but a currency, and I'd always realized it too late—when I'd been used, forgotten, brushed aside.
"I was thinking about watching a movie," he murmured to my neck. "There's a lot on Netflix I haven't seen. Not in this language, at least."
I reached outside the shower for the towels I'd hung there and drew one over Wes's shoulders before knotting my own around my waist. I didn't acknowledge his statement or the implied invitation. I doubted Wes was one of those guys who threw men away when he was finished with them but it didn't matter because I took care of myself now. I didn't interpret embraces as promises anymore, and I didn't assign emotional value to orgasms, not until I was certain the emotional value ran both ways. And I didn't curl up in bed to watch a movie after jerking a guy off in the shower, even on Valentine's Day.
"I don't have any popcorn but there might be some in the main house," he continued, a sweet, glowy glint in his eyes and an easy smile warming his face as he shifted the towel to his hips. "Is corn a grain? Is that on your naughty list too?"
"Corn is a starch, yes," I said, leading him out of the shower. "Let's get you moisturized. We can't have you using the furniture as a scratching post anymore."
I didn't speak while sweeping body lotion over his back, arms, and chest, but for a minute I leaned into the hand he rested on my hip. He did it with possession, his thumb stroking the tender spot like he owned it and it was his right—hisprerogative—to hold me this way. It seared me like a marking, far more than when he'd spent all over my hand, my belly, my cock.
It was his entitled touch that reminded me his stay here was temporary and I knew better than to settle for bread crumbs. It wasn't a smart use of my time and I didn't have the emotional energy to spare.
So, I stepped back, out of his hold. "I should go."
Wes reached out his hand, tucking one finger under the towel hanging from my hips. "Go get the popcorn, you mean?"
I stared at his arms, the long-healed scars and the freckles and the golden hair. He was so damn pretty. "Home. I should go home."
