"That's it," he said against my lips. "Let me hear you."
I braced my good hand on his shoulder, the wet jersey bunching under my fingers. He stroked me tight and even, his thumb circling the head on every upstroke, and I was already close, embarrassingly close, my whole body wound tight from kneeling for him.
"Joel—"
"I know." He kissed my jaw, my throat, then paused at the spot where neck met shoulder. "Can I?"
I hesitated, already running the math I always had to do: locker room, trainers, interviews. We'd fought about this before, after he left a bite mark on me and I'd panicked, and he'd been so careful ever since.
But I wasn't going back to the locker room for three months. No one would see me undressed until then. I could wear his mark on my skin until it faded, proof that I belonged to someonewho wanted me badly enough to claim me where the world could see.
"Yes." My voice came out rough. "God, yes. Please."
He bit down hard enough to bruise, and I moaned so loud it echoed off the tile, my cock jerking in his hand. He sucked at the spot, tongue hot against the sting, and I wanted more, wanted him to cover me in marks, wanted to look in the mirror tomorrow and see evidence of this everywhere.
"I've got you," he said against my skin.
His free hand slid around to grip my ass, pulling me closer, and I fucked into his fist because I couldn't help it, couldn't do anything but chase the feeling. The water pounded down on us and steam filled the shower, and Joel's mouth was hot on my neck, and I was going to come, I was going to—
"Wait," he said, and his hand stopped moving.
A sound came out of me that might have been a sob.
"Look at me."
I forced my eyes open. Joel's face was inches from mine, water streaming down his cheeks, his hair plastered dark against his forehead. He looked wrecked and beautiful and completely in control.
"You're mine," he said. "Say it."
"I'm yours."
"Again."
"I'm yours, Joel, please—"
His hand started moving again, faster and tighter, and I buried my face in his neck and let go. The orgasm hit me like a wave, pulling me under, and I shook apart against him while he stroked me through it, his other hand firm on the back of my neck.
When I could breathe again, my face was wet with more than shower water. Joel held me against his chest, the wet jersey rough against my cheek, and let me shake.
We stayed like that until the water started to cool. Then Joel reached past me to turn off the shower and pulled me to my feet. My knees buckled, and he caught me, one arm around my waist.
"Bed," he said.
"I can walk."
"Let me." He didn't let go.
He walked me to the bedroom, both of us dripping on the carpet, and stripped the wet boxers off me before pushing me down onto the mattress. Then he peeled off the jersey and climbed in beside me.
I pressed my face against his bare chest. His heartbeat was steady under my ear.
"I'm sorry," I said. "For what I said earlier. About not needing your help."
"Don't." His hand found my hair again, the touch gentle now. "You were right. I was smothering you."
"You weren't." I traced a line down his sternum. "I just don't know how to let someone take care of me."
"I noticed."
