Each word plunged into Kit’s brain, quickening his pulse just as much as the physical touch. He never gave much thought to the size of his—okay, that was a lie. He was a nineteen-year-old guy, for fuck’s sake, and he used to idly hope his cock would get bigger someday. It wasn’t tiny, it just wasn’t impressive.
Except Holden, James, and Darius all seemed plenty impressed.
“If you don’t want me to come, stop jerking me off,” Kit complained, arching against Holden’s body.
Then he groaned in further exasperation when Holden complied. The fucking bastard.
Holden rubbed shower gel into Kit’s tense shoulders. “Is this what you wanted?”
“I want you to fuck me.” Kit twisted, managing to face Holden this time.
The heavy cock brushing his stomach sent butterflies swooping through his entire body. He wanted this so, so bad. Time to really twist the thumbscrews.
Kit looked up through his lashes, lifting his chin to bare his throat. In the smallest, neediest voice he could muster, he begged, “Please, Holden, please fuck me now.”
Holden shuddered. Focused, intent, he yanked the shower handle, and the spray cut out. Water dripped, punctuating their shared breaths.
“Not here.” Holden grinned at Kit’s pout. “I want to tie you to my bed.”
Kit’s protest faltered. “I suppose that’s acceptable.”
Holden’s grin widened into dimples. “I’ve been planning our first time for a while.”
“How long?” Kit asked, greedy for every ounce of twisted affection.
Holden took Kit by the hand and bent to kiss his knuckles. The touch of his lips bloomed along Kit’s skin. “I started fantasizing after we met at the library. But the fantasies didn’t turn into plans until I knew you wanted me, too.” Holden’s grip tensed. His eyes lowered. “The real me, that is. Not the mask.”
For a moment, the blue tiles darkened to a grubby basement. “When you kidnapped me.”
Holden kissed Kit’s hand again. His voice rasped. “You showed me I didn’t have to die with you. I started planning how to live with you instead.”
Kit shuddered. He knew exactly what Holden was giving him. A cold heart on a bone platter. A heart Holden hadn’t even known beat in his chest.
A vulnerable piece of truth.
It did the job. Kit wasn’t thinking about anybody else right now. He felt dizzy, the floor unstable, as he and Holden left the shower.
There were awkward moments of laughter. Holden threatened to shake himself out like a dog but wrung his hair into the shower instead. Haphazard attempts at drying each other with towels. They gave up still damp, hair clinging to their necks, and stumbled into the bedroom.
Kit fell onto the bed, where soft bedding clung to his bare skin. But Holden paused at the nightstand, so Kit sat back up to watch him.
“I can grab lube from another room,” Kit offered.
“You aren’t leaving that bed until I’ve fucked you senseless,” Holden said, with his usual cheerfulness. Except there was a shivery uncertainty in his movements. Like he was off balance, out of his element.
Like today really meant something to him.
Holden pulled a box from the nightstand. The wood clunked on the surface, and the latch whispered open at a touch. Holden drew out a pair of cuffs Kit hadn’t seen in months.
But their weight seared into his memory. Lined with leather and fake fur. Heavy. Comfortable.
“Can I use these?” Holden asked quietly.
The same cuffs he used the night he drugged and kidnapped Kit. The night he planned to murder kit.
The night Kit ripped open his own heart as a gift.
A need deeper than lust pulsed through Kit. He wanted an echo of that night. An hour, a moment when nothing mattered outside this singular obsession. Kit offered his wrists. “Only if you use the ankle cuffs, too.”
