His breathing turns ragged, borderline sobbing. “Please,” he chokes. “Please, I can’t—I can’t?—”
“Yes, you can.” My tone softens just a fraction. My free hand slides around his hip, gently caressing the rash of goosebumps that erupt, pressing my thumb into a dimple at the top of his ass. “I’ve got you,” I say against his skin. “Just say it, and I’ll take care of you.”
His lips tremble, and for a second I think he’s going to bolt again. But then he shatters so beautifully, it nearly brings tears to my eyes.
“I’m a good girl,” he wails, the words tearing out of him on a sob. “I’myourgood girl?—”
That’s it.
The sound of it, the way he saysyour good girlsnaps something inside me. I groan, hips jerking as release hits me hard, hot and sharp. I spill across the small of his back, streaking his skin, his spine, his hips while he kneels there shaking and confessing everything he’s been fighting.
“That’s fucking right you are,” I pant, squeezing the last of it from myself.
For a moment, all I hear is water and his breathing. He’s still on his knees, shoulders heaving, hands fisted on his thighs. The muscles in his back twitch under my gaze, adding to the quaking of his trembling body.
I slowly drag my hand through the mess on his skin, spreading it in lazy circles over the small of his back, the curve of his hips. He shudders under my touch, but he doesn’t pull away.
“Hey,” I murmur, softer now. “Breathe. You’re okay.”
I keep my palm broad, steady, massaging it in like lotion, like I’m grounding him instead of just marking him. His breathing gradually evens out, the wild edge smoothing.
“That’s it,” I soothe. “Good. You did so good for me.”
He makes a broken sound, head hanging.
“You want to come?” I ask.
His answer is desperate and immediate. “Yes. Please?—”
I smile against his shoulder, then reach around and wrap my hand around him at last.
He jerks like he’s been shocked, knees sliding a little on the slick tile.
“Shh. I’ve got you.”
I barely squeeze his cock and give him one firm pull before he erupts.
He spills with a shout, his body bowing forward, hands slapping against the wet tile to catch himself. My name is garbled out on an anguished wail, the sound echoing off the empty walls, raw and unguarded.
I slow my hand, easing him through it, then let go.
He sags, breathing hard.
I shift around to face him and gently tip his chin up with my fingertips, leaving a streak of our combined release on his jaw that I don’t bother wiping away. His eyes are glassy and unfocused, lips parted and panting, cheeks flushed.
He looks wrecked. Beautifully, gloriously wrecked.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” I ask softly, dropping a soft kiss to his forehead.
He swallows and makes a sound, maybe trying for some snarky comeback, but nothing comes out. Just a small, bewildered sound.
I smile and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth this time. He goes still, reminding me that even now, in this broken state, he’s still fighting this.
“Next time you want to come,” I murmur against his skin, “you won’t wait so long to find me, will you?”
His breath catches. He doesn’t answer, but the way his body stiffens and the way his eyes flick up to mine then away lets me know he heard me.
I don’t think I’ll need to wait as long for him to break on the next round.
