I lean down and kiss him. Not like the careful first kiss. This one carries six weeks of longing. Six weeks of almost-touches, of restraint, of quiet ache. My mouth covers his, slow and deep. His lips part immediately, welcoming. The taste of him, warm, faintly sweet, mixed with shower water is intoxicating. My hands cradle his face, thumbs along his jaw, fingers threading into wet hair. I kiss him thoroughly, tongue sliding against his in lazy strokes, savoring every soft sigh he gives me. I kiss him like I have all night. I kiss him like I have the rest of my life.
This kiss is the door opening. Both of us walking through it at the same time.
He makes a sound against my mouth. Low, quiet, a sound that lives in the back of his throat and vibrates through his body into mine. His hands are on my waist and his fingers dig in. The sound gets louder, less controlled, and hearing him lose control by choice, because he wants to, because it feels good and not because someone is taking it, unravels me.
"Tell me if anything is too much," I say against his mouth. "Tell me to stop and I stop. Any time. Any reason. You're in control here, not me. You hear me?"
"I hear you." His voice is wrecked, husky, breathless. "Don't stop."
My hands glide down over his neck, shoulders, chest. Palms flat over his pectorals, feeling the steady thump of his heart, the faint ridges of ribs. My thumbs circle his nipples slowly; they pebble under the touch, and he gasps, head tipping back against the tile. Water traces paths down his throat, over collarbones, between us.
He's trembling. Not from cold, or fear. From want. He's shaking because my hands are on him and he wants them there.
He wants me.
"You're beautiful," I tell him. "I need you to hear that. You are the most beautiful person I have ever seen in my life, and I have wanted to tell you that since the day I found you."
His eyes open, glistening. "Nobody's ever said that... not like they meant it."
"I mean it. Every word. You take my breath away every time I look at you."
I kiss his neck, the pulse point fluttering under my lips, the hollow of his throat, the slope of his shoulder. When my mouth finds the sensitive spot behind his ear, he moans, fingers tightening on my sides. The sound is soft, unguarded, pure pleasure.
"I used to watch your hands," he whispers, "and be afraid of how strong they are. How much they could hurt." Water runs between our bodies. "Now... I can't stop imagining how good they feel. How gentle."
My hands settle on his hips, thumbs stroking slow arcs over sharp hip bones. I'm breathing hard, fighting to stay steady, because his words are undoing me.
"These hands will never hurt you," I promise. "Not tonight. Not ever. They're yours, Stormy. Everything they do is for you."
His touch grows bolder. Palms skim my chest, down my stomach, feeling muscles flex and tighten. He looks up, eyes heavy-lidded, dark with want, no fear.
"I want to touch you," he says.
"Then touch me. Anywhere. However you want. I'm yours."
His hand drifts lower, fingers trailing through the coarse hair below my navel, then brushing my cock, light at first. Fingertips map the length, the thickness, the vein pulsing along the underside. Then he wraps around me, tentative grip learning the heat, the hardness, the slickness at the head. I hiss, hips twitching forward involuntarily.
The sound I make is not something I'm proud of. It comes from somewhere deep and primal and it fills the small bathroom. His eyes go wide and then dark, watching my face, watching what his hand does to me, and a flicker of wonder crosses his expression. The realization that he can make me feel this way, that his touch is wanted, that the same hands he's used to fend off pain can also give pleasure.
I brace my hands on the wall beside his head to steady myself. He's careful, stroking slow, thumb circling the sensitive crown on each upstroke, spreading precome until the glide is smooth and slick. Every pass makes my thighs tense, breath ragged.
"Stormy... you have no idea what you do to me. How much I want you."
I reach between us, wrapping my hand around his cock. He gasps, forehead dropping to my chest. His hips jerkforward, and the sound he makes is the most honest sound I've ever heard another human being produce. Raw and open and stripped of everything he uses to protect himself.
His cock throbs in my palm, hot, rigid, slick at the tip. I stroke gently, matching the rhythm he's set on me, thumb sweeping over his slit, collecting wetness, spreading it down the shaft.
"Okay?" I check.
"Yes... don't stop."
"Look at me, baby. I want to see your eyes."
He lifts his head and his eyes find mine. They're so open it hurts to look at them. All the walls down. All the armor off. Everything he's been hiding since the day I found him, laid bare in the space between us, and the trust in those eyes is so fragile that I would rather die than break it.
"This is what it's supposed to feel like," I say, hand moving steady and slow. "When someone wants you. Who wants to make you feel good too."
"I didn't know," he breathes. "I didn't know it could feel like this."
