"I can feel you," I murmur against his lips. "So hard... so fucking big against me."
He shudders, his hands gripping my hips tighter. "You too. Christ, you're perfect. I didn't know... seeing you like this..." His words trail off into a moan as I rock my hips, our cocks sliding together, the friction sending sparks up my spine.
"I want—" Ivan starts, then stops. He gasps as my hand trails down his abs, fingers tracing the ridges. "Can I touch you?"
"Whatever you want," I tell him, meaning it with every fiber of my being. My heart hammers as I pull back just enough to look at him, water dripping from my lashes. "Anything. Everything. Touch me, Ivan. I need your hands on me. You don't need to ask. Ever."
His eyes lock on mine, intense and vulnerable, and then his hand slides down between us, tentative at first, knuckles brushing my stomach. His fingers wrap around both of us—around my shaft and his thicker one, pressingour cocks together in his grip. The sensation hits me like lightning: the heat of his palm, the way his length throbs against mine, velvet skin over steel, the slight difference in our sizes making it all the more intimate. His cock feels massive in our shared hold, the veins prominent under my touch when I join him, the head bumping mine with every slight movement.
"Fuck," I gasp against his mouth, my free hand bracing on the wall behind him. "Fuck, Ivan, that's—your hand around us... feeling you pulse like that..."
"Feel good?" he asks, his breath hot on my lips. His thumb swipes over our heads, smearing the mix of pre-cum and water, and I nearly buckle. "Is this okay? Tell me if it's too much."
"So good. So fucking good. Don't stop." I kiss him hard, nipping his bottom lip, and he moans, his hips bucking into our fists.
"Show me," he breathes, his forehead pressing to mine, eyes half-lidded and dark with need. "Show me how you like it. I want to make you feel as wrecked as I do."
I wrap my hand over his, guiding him, the rhythm steady and firm, twisting slightly at the top to tease our sensitive heads, the pressure just right, not too tight but enough to make my balls draw up. "Like this... yeah, fuck, just like that. Feel how hard you make me? Your cock against mine... so thick, stretching my fingers. God, your cock is big."
He groans, low and guttural, his free hand clutching my shoulder as we move together, hands working in tandem. The water slicks everything, making the slide effortless, obscene sounds mixing with our pants and the shower's roar. I watch his face—brows furrowed in concentration, lips parted, cheeks flushed, and it's the hottest thing I've ever seen.
"I'm close," Ivan gasps after what feels like eternity and no time at all, his rhythm faltering as his body tenses. "Already. I'm already close again. Fuck... seeing you come undone like this..."
"Me too. Let go. I want to watch you—want to feel you come all over us."
Ivan comes first with a guttural, broken moan that echoes off the shower walls, his shaft swelling impossibly thicker in my grip before itpulses again and again, hot ropes of cum shooting over my knuckles, splattering up my stomach and his, mixing instantly with the water but still thick and visible, pearly white against our skin.
"Fuck—fuck, I'm coming," he gasps, hips bucking helplessly as another spurt erupts from that flushed, swollen head, coating both our cocks in his release. I feel every throb, every hot jet, the slick heat of him painting us both, and it's too much.
My own climax slams into me a heartbeat later, brutal and blinding. My cock kicks hard against his, balls drawing up tight as I start to unload, thick pulses of cum surging out of me in long, messy streaks that mingle with his—my release shooting across his fingers, over his shaft, dripping down to his heavy balls. "Ivan—shit, coming so fucking hard for you," I choke out, vision whiting out at the edges while pleasure tears through me, sharp and relentless, every muscle seizing as I empty myself between us.
Our hands keep stroking through it, milking every last shuddering spurt from each other, cum-slick fingers gliding over sensitive heads until we're both trembling, oversensitive and wrecked. We slump together, foreheads pressed, mouths open against each other's skin, gasping hot, ragged breaths as the aftershocks roll through us—little involuntary twitches of our spent cocks still trapped in our messy grip, bodies shaking while the water washes the evidence away in slow, lazy rivulets.
Afterward, the frantic energy drains away, leaving only the soft patter of water and our slowing breaths. We stay pressed together under the cooling spray for a long minute, foreheads touching, letting the tremors fade. Ivan's arms are still around me, loose now, protective. He presses a small, exhausted kiss to the corner of my mouth, then another to my jaw, like he can't quite stop.
I reach blindly for the soap, fumbling until my fingers close around it. I lather the soap between my palms until it's slippery and fragrant. I trace the constellation of faint freckles across his shoulders, circling each one with my thumbs as suds bloom white against his flushed skin. My hands glide down the slope of his back, feeling the long muscles there relax under my touch, the subtle shift of his spine as he leans into me. When I reach the curve where his back meets his ass, I pause, pressing akiss between his shoulder blades. He shivers—not from cold—and sighs my name, soft and reverent.
I keep going, soaping the firm swell of his cheeks, the backs of his thighs, down to the sensitive spots behind his knees that make him twitch and smile. By the time I turn him around to face me again, his cock has softened, hanging thick and heavy between his legs, still flushed from what we just did, a single bead of water clinging to the tip. I cup it gently, more care than arousal now, washing him with slow, deliberate strokes, feeling the velvet weight of him in my palm. His breath catches, but he doesn't harden again; he just watches me with half-lidded eyes, trusting, letting me take care of him.
"Your turn," he murmurs. He takes the soap from my hand, our fingers brushing, lingering. He starts with my hair, working the lather in with strong, gentle fingers, massaging my scalp in slow circles that pull a helpless hum from my throat. I close my eyes and lean into it, feeling the tension of the day—of weeks, months—melt away under his touch.
Shampoo suds slide down my neck, over my chest; he follows them with his hands, palms gliding over my collarbones, thumbs brushing my nipples until they tighten, then down the line of my stomach. He soaps my arms next, lifting each one like he's memorizing the shape of my biceps, the faint veins on my forearms.
When he reaches my hands, he threads our fingers together, washing between them, over my knuckles, as if even this small part of me deserves attention. Then lower—skimming my hips, cupping my ass with both hands, squeezing gently before sliding forward. He washes my cock with the same reverence he showed his own: slow, thorough strokes, base to tip, fingers careful around the sensitive head until I'm clean and soft in his hand. His touch isn't trying to arouse; it's claiming, cherishing, saying mine without words.
We rinse each other under the spray, taking turns stepping fully into the stream. I tip his head back, smoothing water through his dark hair until it lies sleek against his skull. He does the same for me, fingers combing through the strands, then trailing down my neck, my back, guiding the water over every inch until no trace of soap remains. We stealquiet kisses the whole time—soft, lingering presses of lips, no urgency, just connection.
The water finally turns cold, shocking us both into breathless laughter. Ivan reaches past me to shut it off, his chest brushing mine one last time under the spray. We step out into the steamy bathroom, skin prickling in the cooler air, and grab the threadbare towels. They're thin and rough, but it doesn't matter.
I dry his hair first, rubbing gently until it's tousled and damp, then move down his neck, his chest, taking my time over every ridge and hollow. He returns the favor, patting my shoulders, my back, lifting my arms to dry underneath, even kneeling briefly to towel off my legs and feet. When he stands again, he wraps the towel around my waist for a moment, pulls me close, and kisses me slow and deep.
"Is sex always like that?" he asks.
"Hell, if I know. I've never done it before. With anyone."
"Me neither." He tilts his head up to look at me. "But I can't imagine it being better than that. With anyone else. How could it be?"
"It wouldn't be," I tell him, and I mean it. "Nothing would ever be better than you."
