"Turn around," I said.
He turned. I pressed against his back. My cock against his ass, my chest against his shoulders. I grabbed the hotel soap—small, white, smelling like something expensive—and lathered my hands.
Started with his shoulders. The muscles knotted from weeks of training, from carrying every expectation ever placed on him. I dug my thumbs into the tension and he dropped his head forward.
"God," he breathed. "Right there."
My hands moved down his back. Over the planes of muscle, the dip of his spine, the dimples above his ass. I soaped every inch of him—slow, deliberate, my slick hands learning the landscape of his body the way I'd learned the landscape of the river. By feel. By attention. By showing up every day and doing the work.
"You're so good at that," he said. His voice had gone thick.
"At what?"
"At making me feel—" He turned his head. Profile sharp in the steam. Water on his lashes. "Amazing."
I kissed his shoulder. Then the back of his neck. Then that spot behind his ear where his pulse hammered.
He turned around to face me. Took the soap from my hands. Started washing me the same way—careful, thorough, his palms sliding over my chest, my stomach, the cut of muscle at my hips. His hands moved lower. Soaped my cock, my balls, stroked me until my knees almost buckled.
I rinsed the soap off both of us. Let the water run clear. Then I dropped to my knees.
He looked down at me. Water streaming over his shoulders, running down his chest in rivulets. His cock hard and flushed in front of my face. His eyes wide—not performing, not calculating. Just wanting.
"Is this okay?" I asked.
"Liam. Please."
I took him in my mouth. The taste of him—clean from the soap, salt underneath, the taste that was just Alex. I took him deep, my tongue flat against the underside, and the sound he made echoed off the tile walls.
"Fuck—" His hand found my hair. Not pushing. Just holding. "Your mouth. Jesus, your mouth."
I worked him. Slow at first, then building. Reading the way his body responded—the hitch in his breathing when I sucked the head, the jerk of his hips when I took him all the way down. Communicating through touch the way we communicated in the boat. Listening. Adjusting. Finding the rhythm.
"That's so good," he said. Wrecked. "Liam, that's so—"
I pulled back. Licked from base to tip. Let my hand take over—slick, tight, stroking him while I looked up. His chest heaving. His stomach clenching. His eyes on mine like I was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
My other hand moved. Behind his balls. Finding the space between. My finger traced lower—found his hole and pressed against it.
Alex's entire body went taut.
"Oh my god," he whispered. His voice cracked on the last word.
I kept stroking him. Kept my finger there—circling, pressing, rubbing the tight ring of muscle while my other hand worked his cock. His legs were shaking. His hand fisted in my hair.The sounds coming out of him were nothing I'd heard before—desperate, undone, the sounds of a person who'd stopped thinking entirely.
"More," he gasped. "Liam—right there—don't stop—"
I pressed harder. His hips rocked—forward into my hand, backward against my finger. Chasing both sensations at once. His whole body trembling.
"I'm close," he said. The words barely audible over the water. "I'm so close—wait—"
He reached down. Grabbed my wrist. Not pulling me off. Just stopping me.
"Not yet," he said. Breathing hard. Eyes glassy. "Not yet. I don't want to finish yet."
"Yeah?"
"I want—" He pulled me up. Kissed me under the spray—messy, open-mouthed, tasting himself on my tongue. "I want more of you first."
