"On the stairs."
"Oh my god—"
"You're stalling again."
I lower my hand.
I let my soaped palm close around him.
His head tips back against the tile. His throat works. The teasing slips off him the way water sluices off skin—gone, all at once—and what's underneath is a kind of stillness I have never seen on Zero. His chest rises and falls. His jaw is locked. He is holding himself absolutely still while I feel him in my hand for the first time.
He is heavy.Hard. The skin hot against my palm even through the spray. My thumb finds the head and he twitches in my grip and the sound that comes out of him is closer to a growl than anything I have language for.
"Don't move," he says. Quiet. Through his teeth. "Don't move yet, just—fuck. Just hold me. Yeah. Just like that."
"Okay."
"You have no idea how long I have wanted your hand on me."
"Tell me."
"Every fucking day. Since the terrace."
"...the terrace."
"At the wedding. You were standing at the railing pretending you weren't hiding. Tie crooked. Arms wrapped around yourself like you thought if you held on tight enough nobody would notice you. I came out for a smoke and you tried to scold me about it." A short rough laugh. "Twenty seconds. Twenty fucking seconds with you and I knew I was going to be a problem."
"...I didn't know that."
"I know you didn't. You called Margot your mom and corrected me when I said stepmother and your whole face went hard, and I thought—Christ, this kid is going to ruin my life." His thumb keeps stroking my hipbone, slow, almost not aware he's doing it. "I went back inside and drank my way through the rest of the reception and all but fucked up my dad’s wedding."
"You—you're kidding—"
"I am not kidding, baby. I have been sick about you since last June."
I move my hand, then. Slow. One stroke up. Soap slick easing the slide. His eyes squeeze shut.
"Christ, Max—"
I stroke him again. Slower. He grips my hip with both hands now, hard, his forehead lowered to my shoulder, breath hot against my skin. He is making small involuntary sounds into my collarbone with every pull of my fist, and I have never in my life been the source of those sounds out of anyone, much less Zero, and I am drunk on it.
"Tighter, baby. Use your hand."
I tighten my grip.
He groans. Hips rocking forward into the slide. His mouth at my throat—open, wet, teeth grazing the pulse point. He is shaking against me.
I stroke him three more times. Four. Slow. Watching his face. Watching what each motion does to him.I am doing this to him. I am Max Carter and I am doing this to Zero Graves and he is letting me.
The thought is so loud I almost laugh again.
He hears it in the bond. Lifts his head. His eyes are black.
"What's funny."
"I'm—nothing—I'm—"
"Tell me."
