"It will. Every time. I promise."
We move together, his hand on my cock, mine on his, slick with water, bodies pressed tight. His grip firms as he learns what I like. Firmer pressure, twisting slightly at the head and I mirror him, reading every hitch in his breath, every tremor. His hips rock into my fist; mine nudge into his hand.
His breath comes in short, ragged bursts and his hips are moving with my hand and his whole body is trembling with a tension that's building toward something he might not have ever felt like this before. Not like this.
"Tex." He groans my name, desperate and raw. "Tex, I'm… I'm going to..."
"I've got you." Same words from the water. Same promise. "It's okay to let go. I'm here. Not going anywhere. It's okay."
His body arches against mine and I feel him throb in my hand, feel the hot pulse of him spilling over my fingers, his cock jerking with each wave. The sound he makes is muffled against my chest, raw and shattered and free. His whole body shakes with it — thighs, stomach, the hand still gripping me — and I hold him through every second, my fist still moving slow, drawing it out, letting him feel all of it.
Watching him. Feeling him.
That's what takes me over the edge. His face against my chest and his body shaking and the trust of it, the absolute, total, devastating trust of this man who has never been safe with anyone letting himself be this vulnerable with me.
I groan loudly, hips jerking as I come in his hand, pulsing thick and hot against his skin. The release crashes through me, starting where his touch is and radiating out until my knees threaten to buckle.
We stand there, both of us panting. Arms around each other. His face tucked against my chest, mine resting on his wet hair. Holding him tight. The water washes everything away, down the drain, gone, and we're clean and breathing hard.
"Are you okay?" I ask softly. I will always ask.
He lifts his head. Eyes bright, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen, looking beautifully wrecked. "More than okay. I didn't know... I didn't know my body could feel like this. Like it's mine."
I pull him closer, arms locking around him. "It's yours. Always. Nothing happens unless you want it. You understand?"
He presses his face to my neck. "I know. I've known since that first night."
The water keeps falling, warm and steady, like it can wash away everything that came before. And maybe, just maybe, it can.
I turn off the shower with one hand, the other still wrapped protectively around Stormy's waist. The sudden quiet is almost startling. Just our breathing now, heavy and slowing, and the soft drip from the showerhead. Steam clings to the tiles, to our skin, making everything feel close and cocooned.
He doesn't move away. Neither do I. His arms stay looped around my middle, face still tucked against the center of my chest like he's listening to my heartbeat steady itself. I can feel the last fine tremors in his thighs, the way his fingers flex and relax against my back in little unconscious waves, like he's reminding himself I'm real.
I reach for the towel hanging on the hook just outside the stall. I drape it over his shoulders first, pulling the edges around him so it covers his back and chest. He lets out a small, surprised breath when the terrycloth settles against his wet skin.
"Come here," I murmur, guiding him out of the stall with a hand low on his spine.
The bathroom floor is cool under our feet. I grab the second towel for myself but don't bother wrapping it yet. Instead, I focus on him. I blot gently at his hair, careful not to rub too hard, then down his neck, across his shoulders.
When I reach the faint yellow bruises along his ribs I slow even more, letting the towel glide over them like I'm touching something fragile and precious. He watches my hands the whole time, eyes soft and searching.
"You don't have to—" he starts.
"I want to," I say simply. "Let me take care of you. I like taking care of you. I really do. Humor me."
He doesn't argue. He leans into the touch instead, eyes fluttering half-closed when I dry the line of his sternum, the soft skin below his navel. I'm thorough but gentle, never lingering too long in one place.
Every pass of the towel is a reminder.I see you. All of you. And I'm still here.
When he's mostly dry, I wrap the towel around his waist, tucking it secure at his hip. Only then do I swipe the second towel quickly over myself, just enough to stop dripping. I don't care about being perfectly dry. I care about getting him warm and held.
I scoop him up again, the same way I carried him in here. His arms come around my neck without hesitation, legs wrapping loosely around my waist. He's lighter than he should be, still, but he feels steadier against me, less like something that might shatter if I breathe wrong.
I carry him back to the bedroom. The sheets are still rumpled from earlier. I set him down gently in the center, then climb in beside him and pull the top sheet over both of us. No need for more than that. The room is warm, our skin still flushed.
He immediately curls into me, head finding the hollow under my jaw, one leg sliding between mine. I wrap both arms around him, one hand splayed wide across his back, theother cradling the nape of his neck. My thumb strokes slow, mindless circles at the base of his skull.
For a long moment we just breathe together. In, out. His exhales warm against my throat. Mine ruffle his damp hair.
