He steps back with a softtsk. “Nuh-uh,” he murmurs, voice low. “I’m going to take care of you.”
The words land like warm hands on cold skin. I let myself tip into it—the luxury of being tended to, of being seen and serviced. This right here is the point everything keeps circling back to. Being cared for hits me like euphoria, a clean burn I’ve chased my whole life. Call it mommy-and-daddy issues if you want; I’m done apologizing for what steadies me. We don’t speak. The room speaks for us: the steady rush of water, the slip of breath, the small sounds of devotion. When he sinks to his knees, the picture sharpens—steam curling around us, water threading down his temples, the hush between us loud with want.
When he’s finished, he stays there, looking up. Water clings like tear tracks. It knocks the air out of me. I cradle his jaw and thumb his lower lip. “Beautiful.”
I stroke myself once, twice, then press my thumb to his mouth. He opens, and I guide him down, angling him to take my cock. His nose brushes the trimmed edge of my pubic hair, and the steam turns his lashes glossy. I hold him there while he breathes and swallows, and that familiar trick of his—God, that trick—pulls me hard toward the edge.
“This mouth was made for me,” I rasp, and his hum vibrates through me in a way that unthreads my knees. I rock deeper, faster, finding a rhythm against the wet heat of his mouth. I’m so close.
“Fuck, yeah. Look at you,” I say. “On your knees for me.” He meets each push with a sure, steady bob. But I’m missing his eyes. Ineedhis eyes.
“Eyes on me, little mouse.”
He looks up, cheeks wet, mouth full, mine in every way that counts. Heat surges. My balls draw up tight before I throw my head back on a shout as rope after rope of my cum slides down his throat.
Beckett eases off and drags his thumb over his lower lip—a quick, satisfied sweep. Reality cuts through the haze when the water turns lukewarm. We’re going to freeze if we don’t move quickly, so I haul him to his feet, turn him to the wall, and set his palms flat.
I lean toward his ear. “Mine.”
“Yours,” he answers, barely more than breath.
I soap my hands and slowly work him over—chest, shoulders, the strong lines of his back—letting the lather and heat do the talking. The shower hushes everything but the sounds he makes for me.
“Tip that gorgeous ass back for me, baby.”
“Yes, sir.”
I groan as the sound of the moniker wraps around my cock and pulls. “Oh, fuck.” I give his ass a couple of slaps, one on each cheek, before getting my finger nice and soapy and swirling it around his hole.
“Mmmmm,” he moans, the sound almost drowned out by the spray.
I press my finger in, slow and patient, until the tight ring of muscle gives way. I turn his face toward mine and catch his mouth. My tongue dances along the seam until he opens as I finger fuck him.
My knees complain, but I drop anyway. He softens around me. I scissor him open, searching until I find the spot, and stay there. He jolts. I smile. Gotcha.
“Beg for it, little mouse,” I murmur.
“Yes… please, yes.”
I lock an arm across his belly, take his cock in my fist, and match my hand to my tongue as I dive in and lap at his hole, devouring the taste of him. The shower tiles throw his sounds of pleasure back at us—pleas, broken praise, the kind of noises I tell myself he only makes for me. I keep him right there until all that’s left is surrender.
“More,” he begs. “Please more. I need more.”
The sound of his begging is euphoric. I don’t let up on my assault of his hole—teasing, licking, and sucking—and all the while my hand pumps his cock.
His cries get louder and more frantic. I feel his cock thicken before his entire body tenses. “Oh, fuck, I’m coming.”
Beckett’s body sags against the shower wall, and I sit back on my heels, wishing I had a handrail to help hoist myself up.
With a few cracks and pops, I stand, leaning into Beckett, my chest to his back as his shoulders heave with breaths of air. We stand there, the sound of our breathing drowned out by the…
“Holy—cold, cold, cold!” he yelps, flailing for escape. Our bubble dies on impact, and we both lurch for safety. Beckett tangles himself in the curtain like a frantic moth, while I slap at the faucet like it owes me money. The water goes frigid, and we go feral.
Beckett breaks free, snatches a towel, and burritos himself with the speed of a seasoned professional. He yanks another from the wooden rack in the corner and pelts it at my chest. “Here,” he says, teeth chattering.
I dry off as fast as I can, watching him shiver like an offended chihuahua. “This is your fault,” he says, lips blue, eyes laughing.
“My fault? I was providing stress relief.”
