Chapter Nine #2
I swallowed, slid the underwear down, and kicked it aside. I stood there, naked, every scar and tattoo and old fuck-up on display, shivering despite the heat in my cheeks.
Jo took his time looking me over. His eyes swept the length of my body, slow and deliberate. I felt myself flush even harder, every nerve ending humming with embarrassment and excitement.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just let the silence build, filling the room with its weight. Then he turned, walked into the bathroom, and left the door open.
For a second, I just stood there, feeling like an idiot. But then I heard the sink running, and the unmistakable sound of a zipper coming down.
Jo came back out a minute later, stark naked. It was the first time I’d seen him in full light—shoulders broad and solid, chest dusted with hair, thighs thick enough to break bones. There were scars, too, white and puckered on his arms and ribs, a road map of every fight he’d ever survived.
He crossed the room, every step controlled, unhurried. He stopped in front of me, so close I could smell the clean, sharp tang of soap and aftershave.
He reached out, ran a thumb over my cheek, then down my throat. His hand was huge, fingers rough from a lifetime of wrench work, and the pressure was just shy of painful.
He looked me in the eye. “Do you trust me?”
I wanted to say yes, but the word stuck. It was too big, too real. I’d never trusted anyone—not even my own family. Not really. But I nodded, and when that wasn’t enough, I whispered, “Yeah.”
He smiled, not soft, but genuine. “Good,” he said, and let his hand slide down my chest, stopping just above my heart. “On the bed,” he said. “Now.”
And I went, because that’s what you do when someone finally gives you what you want.
Jo didn’t waste a second. He herded me to the bed, pressed my shoulders until I sat, then knelt in front of me, one hand on my knee, the other digging through the nightstand drawer.
He pulled out a strip of black cloth. The sight of it made my pulse jackhammer.
“Blindfold?” he asked, like it was an option.
I nodded. I’d have said yes to anything right then.
He tied it slow, careful not to catch my hair, the cloth snug enough to blot out all light. My other senses flared—smell, taste, the scrape of his skin on mine. I couldn’t see shit, but I could feel the weight of his stare, burning holes into me.
He stood. “Hands,” he said.
I held them up, palms open.
He took my wrists in his, thumbs tracing the bones, and for a second I thought he might kiss them. Instead, he closed his grip and pulled me to my feet.
“Nervous?” he murmured.
I swallowed. “Yeah.”
“Good.”
He steered me toward the bathroom, steps sure and silent.
The air changed—colder, a faint chemical bite from the cleaner, tile cool under my feet.
The world became a map of temperature gradients and echoes: the hiss of pipes, the bass drum thud of my heart, the creak as he guided my hands up and pressed them against the wall.
He reached above me, a rustle and a clink, then the soft whine of metal. My right wrist was cuffed, then the left, both arms stretched overhead and spread just enough that I could brace, but not pull free. The cuffs were lined, padded, but the way they clicked shut made me shiver.
He ran a palm down the length of my back, then kneaded the muscle at the base of my neck.
“You okay?” he asked, voice a lot softer now.
“Yeah,” I whispered.
He stepped away, and for a second I panicked, thinking he might leave me like this. But then the shower sputtered to life, spraying cold water onto the tile. He let it run until the pipes stopped groaning, then cranked the temperature. The steam hit first, then the heat.
Jo pressed his body up behind me—his chest against my shoulder blades, cock hard and hot against my ass. He kissed the back of my neck, then my ear, then bit down, gentle but definite.
I groaned, rolled my hips back against him. He laughed, the vibration running through his chest into my bones. My cock was already leaking, throbbing with every heartbeat.
The water wasn’t aimed at me yet, but I could feel the mist gathering, tiny beads clinging to my skin. Jo put one hand on my hip to steady me, the other splayed flat on my chest, fingers finding a nipple and rolling it until I gasped.
“Outside your head now?” he said, lips right at my ear.
“Yeah.”
He tweaked the nipple harder, then let his hand wander lower, gliding down my stomach, skimming my abs, ghosting over the head of my cock before moving away.
I jerked, straining to follow his touch, but the cuffs held me in place.
He clicked his tongue, like scolding a dog. “Patience.”
His hand was gone, and I was left straining, aching, desperate for more. The only things I could feel were the pulse at my wrists and the buzz between my legs.
Then his hand was back, cupping my balls, heavy and warm. He squeezed, then rolled them in his palm, then let go. Each time, the anticipation was worse than the actual touch.
“Not gonna let you come,” he said, matter-of-fact. “Not until I say.”
My knees buckled. I had to fight to stay upright.
He let me stew in it. I heard him step away, maybe rinsing off his hands, maybe just standing there, watching me twitch. Then he returned, knelt behind me, and spread my ass with both hands.
I shivered. The first contact was his tongue—hot, wet, and immediate, lapping at my hole. I yelped, half in shock, half in mortification, but then his grip tightened and he went to work, licking me open with slow, determined circles.
The tile was cold under my toes, but everywhere else I burned.
He didn’t talk, didn’t say a word. He let the noises he pulled from me do the work—soft moans, panting, the stutter of breath every time he flicked his tongue just right.
He stood, pressed his cock between my cheeks, and rubbed up and down, just to show me how ready he was. I tried to rock back, to get him inside, but the angle was wrong and the cuffs held me firm.
“Not yet,” he growled.
His hand stroked down my back again, then lower, then his fingers—two, slick with spit—slid into me, working slow, steady, stretching me out. It hurt, but not much, and after a minute it started to feel good, then urgent, then necessary.
He worked me open, scissoring his fingers, then curling them forward. He found my prostate and pressed, light at first, then harder. My vision went white behind the blindfold.
I let out a sob, or maybe a laugh. “Fuck, Jo, just do it.”
He ignored me, kept working, kept building, never quite giving me what I needed. Then, all at once, the water turned and hit me full-on—hot, relentless, soaking my hair and shoulders, running in rivers down my chest and legs.
The shock of it stole my breath, and while I sputtered, Jo pressed in, his cock nudging at my hole. He spat on it, rubbed the head around, then drove forward in a single, smooth thrust.
I screamed, not from pain, but from relief.
He fucked me slow at first, the kind of pace that made time stretch out, each stroke deliberate and deep. He kept a hand on my shoulder, using it for leverage, and the other alternated between pinching my nipples, stroking my cock, or just gripping my throat to keep my head in place.
“Say it,” he panted, voice hoarse.
“Say what?”
“That you want it. That you want me.”
I couldn’t find my voice. All I could do was whimper.
He stopped, buried to the hilt, and waited.
“I want you,” I said, so quiet I barely heard it myself.
He slammed in, twice as hard.
“Again,” he demanded.
“I want you.”
“Louder.”
“I want you, Jo, fuck, I want you.”
He resumed, faster this time. The sounds were filthy—skin on skin, the slap of his hips, the ragged moans I couldn’t stop. The air was thick with steam and the smell of sweat and sex.
I lost track of time. Could have been minutes, could have been years.
When he finally reached around and stroked my cock, it took everything in me not to come on the spot. He sensed it, slowed down, and then thrust into me one more time before stopping altogether.
“Not yet,” he said, voice steel.
I panted, my hands curling into fists as strained to not come, to obey his words.
I don’t know how long he fucked me for—minutes, hours, some kind of geological epoch where the only things that mattered were Jo’s cock, Jo’s voice, and the ache in my body as it tried to contain both.
At some point, the world collapsed to steam and muscle and the low, relentless slap of skin on skin.
He held off longer than any sane person should. By the time he started to lose control, I was half-delirious, forehead pressed to the tile, knees shaking, my own dick so hard it felt like it might tear off.
Then, finally, Jo slammed in and stilled. The guttural sound he made wasn’t language; it was pure animal, vibrating down my spine. I felt him pulse inside me, hot and bright, and it sent me over the fucking edge.
He didn’t even have to touch me. He just leaned in, teeth at my ear, and said, “Come for me, Bodean.”
I did.
I screamed.
I’d never come that hard in my life—spattered the wall, the shower, my own stomach. My legs buckled and Jo caught me, arms under my shoulders, keeping me from crumpling to the floor.
He stayed inside me, one arm holding me up, the other sliding up to unlock the cuffs and peel off the blindfold. The world hit me all at once—white tile, bright light, the clouds of steam. My body trembled so hard my teeth chattered.
Jo kissed my temple, then my jaw, then my lips. “You with me?” he murmured.
“Yeah,” I managed, even though it was a lie. My mind was gone, floating somewhere overhead, watching Jo cradle me like a broken thing that needed fixing.
He shut off the water, wrapped me in a towel, then scooped me up and carried me to the bed.
He could have just dropped me there, but instead he laid me down like I was made of something rare.
He found another towel and blotted the water from my hair and chest, slow and careful, like he didn’t want to miss a single drop.
He knelt by the bed, set my arm on a pillow, and inspected the marks the cuffs had left.
His fingers found the pulse point at my wrist, rubbing little circles, then he opened a bottle—lotion, maybe, or some kind of ointment—and massaged it in, gentler than I thought possible for hands that could crush a wrench in two.
He did the same to my ankles, my neck, every place that hurt.
When he finished, he stripped the towel away and pulled a comforter over me, the sheets cool and soft against my skin.
He went to the bathroom, did something at the sink, then came back and eased himself onto the bed behind me, one arm looping around my waist.
We didn’t talk. I could hear his breath slow and steady, the beat of his heart thumping at my back.
I stared at the ceiling, trying to find a thought that wasn’t just static and exhaustion. Jo’s hand found mine under the blanket. He squeezed, once, and didn’t let go.
I closed my eyes, and for the first time in a long time, sleep came easy.
I woke later—could have been minutes or years—curled into the crook of his body, the heat of him soaking into every bruise and muscle. Jo was still asleep, chin on my shoulder, beard scratchy against my neck.
My body ached, but the pain was sweet, every throb a reminder of exactly what I’d asked for. I flexed my fingers, testing the joints, and found the marks at my wrists were already fading, just a memory pressed into the skin.
I didn’t want to move, not even to piss, not even to check the time. I just wanted to stay here, anchored by Jo’s arm and the weight of the blanket, until the world gave up trying to pull me back.
But eventually, Jo stirred. He made a noise in his throat, then kissed the back of my neck, lips warm and soft.
“Hey,” he said, voice gravelly.
“Hey,” I echoed.
He didn’t say anything else, just held me tighter.
I could have told him I loved him, right then. Maybe I would have, if I’d known how. But I settled for twisting my fingers into his and squeezing back, hoping he’d understand.
After a while, he let go and rolled out of bed, naked and unashamed. He moved around the room, gathering clothes, picking up the towels, cleaning up the evidence. I watched him, half-lidded, every move he made sending a low buzz through my chest.
He brought me water, then coffee, then food. He made me eat, made me drink, made me take the pills for the pain in my side. When I tried to protest, he just gave me a look—one I’d learned not to argue with.
He washed me again, this time with a washcloth and a bowl of warm water, wiping every inch of me like he was resetting the counters. When he was done, he got dressed, then came back and tucked the comforter around me like I was a kid and he was tucking me in for the night.
He sat on the edge of the bed, hand on my hip. “You need anything else?”
I thought about it.
“Stay,” I said.
He nodded, and slid in behind me, spooning me close.
“Sleep, baby boy,” he whispered.
I did.
I dreamed of rivers, and mountains, and Jo’s arms holding me above the current, every time.
For the first time in my life, I didn’t want to wake up anywhere else.