Chapter 25 Fragile
Fragile
Gemiah
There’s something strangely vulnerable about sharing a shower with Josha.
We move in careful, shuffling circles, pretending each brush of wet skin isn’t made of taffy and tension rather than body wash and bubbles.
Despite the unexpected awkwardness—why was I less nervous on my knees about to take his cock in my mouth?
—we’re both half hard. Which is mildly frustrating in a vague way because I can’t figure out why we’re not doing anything about it.
Maybe it’s because I watched him learn to shave in this bathroom—me perched on the narrow counter while he pinched his lips between his teeth to drag the disposable razor over his chin.
Maybe it’s because Zombie insists on joining us, paws hooked over the edge of the tub and peeking around the shower curtain with his one good eye—only to shake his head in injured surprise every time the spray ricochets his way.
Or maybe it’s because our past ghosts linger, the echo of honesty a painful weight between us.
He’s rinsing the last shampoo from his hair with his head tipped back, and I’m watching the water pooling in the hollow of his throat and wondering if it would taste different if I drank it off his skin when it finally hits me.
He’s waiting.
Because I said “three things,” and I said “let me seduce you,” and because I’ve made all the first moves in this new dance we’re trying.
Because he doesn’t trust me.
The boy who conquered his fears to kiss me in the truck and unbutton my shorts and take my cock in his inexperienced hand is gone, and I’m the one who killed him.
Now I’m left with this beautiful, naked, cautious man, and it’s up to me to prove I’m worth another chance—that I won’t punish him again for being brave.
“One thing,” I blurt.
He cracks his eyes to peer at me through damp and darkened lashes. “Not three?”
I shake my head, backing up against the warm tile, and tease my cock to full wakefulness. Relief flashes through me when he tracks the movement of my hand and his dick stiffens in response.
“Are you going to tell me what it is?” he asks. “Or make me guess?”
“I want a do-over.”
He swallows, licking his lips, and it’s my turn to wait, knowing he got the message.
The moment drags out, indecision flickering across his features, and I’m almost ready to call it and beg forgiveness when he moves.
The next second, he’s looming over me, one arm braced against the wall above my head while he drags the knuckles of his other hand up the underside of my erection.
“Are you saying you’re ready to face-fuck me into submission?” he asks in a voice full of gravel.
A helpless groan escapes me. I mean, yes? But I keep my hands out of his hair with a supreme force of will, and my voice only cracks a little when I speak. “Is that what you wanted to happen that night?”
He drops his forehead to mine and shifts his hips to pin me to the wall, his cock slotting into place against mine.
The slick slide of sensitive skin eats at my control, but since I’m trying to be good and let him take the lead, I only thrust once before dropping my head back and surrendering to the slow rock of his hips.
I do snake my arms around his waist and grab his ass.
Which. Feels. Fucking. Amazing—all taut muscle bunching under my palms and his tantalizing crease teasing my fingertips. When I dip one in to explore, his breath leaves him in a rush, and he crushes his mouth to mine.
There he is.
The kiss is hard and hungry, his rough stubble scraping my lips as his tongue demands entrance.
When I open for him, he licks inside my mouth, flicking my piercing and making low, ravenous grunts like I’m the best thing he’s ever tasted.
The sounds travel all the way to my toes, igniting each cell in their path, and when he breaks away, I pant against his mouth, breathless and giddy.
“I wasn’t thinking that far ahead,” he says, and it takes me a minute to remember I asked him a question.
“Oh” is all I manage, because my brain is lust-addled and currently lodged somewhere in my dick. “Um. So…”
“So maybe we start where we left off and see what happens?”
I’m nodding before he’s done asking, because he’s already sliding down my body, and the wet curls on his chest are causing a riot over my abs and along my cock.
He sinks back on his heels, his muscled thighs squeezed into the narrow tub to lift his heavy cock and drawn-up balls like an offering on an Adonis platter.
Memory flickers when he splays a hand over my hip, and his eyes aren’t whiskey or chocolate or anything cozy—they’re blown-out pools of dark desire.
“Rocket,” I warn, when he continues to sit there tracing slow, maddening circles with his thumb a half inch from where I want him. “I’m trying really hard to be sweet and sensitive and let you take control, but if you keep looking at me like that, I’m gonna have to do something.”
He blinks, huffing a startled laugh.
“Sweet, huh? I love that you’re trying to be careful with me, but I’m not triggered,” he assures me. “I believe you’re not going to stop me this time.” Something wry and wicked glints through his amusement. “You want control? Go ahead and take it.”
My breath catches. “Oh, so it is like that, huh?” Heat rushes up my spine when he shrugs.
“I’ve had time to think about it.”
He’s been able to think these last ten minutes?
New mission: Punish his throat with my cock until he doesn’t have a thought left in his annoyingly pretty head.
I’ll even be sweet about it.
“You’re fucking gorgeous on your knees for me, Rocket,” I tell him, because he is, and I want him to know it. And because he also deserves a little gentleness before I ravage him, I brush a damp lock of auburn hair off his forehead. “I’ll give you whatever you want. I’m a total mess for you.”
His lips part with a flush that has nothing to do with the hot water pounding on his back, and I slip my thumb between them.
“Open for me. Just like that.”
When his tongue darts out to taste me, I rub the pad of my thumb over it, gathering his saliva and smearing it over his already wet lips. Then I slide one hand around to cup the back of his neck while I grip the base of my cock and line it up.
“You ready?”
All the wry amusement is gone from his face, leaving only heat and surrender.
Please don’t let me fucking come the second I touch that mouth.
Curling my fingers around his neck, I urge him forward until I can press the head of my cock down on his tongue.
“Suck.”
He closes his mouth around me and sucks.
Ohfuckohfuckohfuck.
My hand slides up, fingers tangling tightly in his hair, and I fight to hold myself still.
“Holy shit, that’s so fucking good,” I groan as he rubs his scorching tongue back and forth over the sensitive strip beneath my crown.
“I’m gonna give you a little more now, okay?
” The tight suction eases as he relaxes his jaw, and I nudge deeper into his willing mouth.
He gags when I hit the back of his tongue, then swallows reflexively at the rush of saliva, nearly bringing me to my knees.
I’m losing it.
I yank his head back, my cock popping free, and bend to bring my face to his.
“Baby, I wanna use you so bad right now,” I confess. “But I don’t want to hurt you, and I need you to like it. I need you to come with me when I spill down your throat. Can you do that for me?”
Slowly, eyes pinned to my face, he swipes his hand over his spit-soaked mouth, then uses it to coat his ruddy cock. “Yes.”
“It’s not gonna be gentle.” I need him to understand.
He tries to nod, whining through his strained vocal cords when I give his head a shake.
“Words, Rocket.”
“Yes,” he whispers, his hand shuttling desperately over his erection, and I stand, satisfied.
This time, he barely lets me angle myself before he surges forward, taking me as deep as he can.
This time, I hold him there, testing him with shallow thrusts of my hips until his throat stops fighting and lets me in.
A babble of nonsense spills out of me as I brace my back against the tile and sink both hands into his hair.
Mindful of his inexperience, I skirt the limits of my restraint, giving him time to adjust before I unleash myself.
But fuck, he makes it hard to hold back.
He sucks air through his nose and watches my reactions with fervent, lust-fogged eyes.
Then he chokes, and when he follows it with a hum of approval, I’m fucking done. Losing the last of my control, I hold him still and fuck into him with brutal abandon.
The sounds of it are obscene and decadently…masculine—harsh pants and groans and the wet smack of his hand working over his cock—and I’ve never been so turned on in my life. My orgasm is a tsunami rushing toward shore.
“I’m gonna—fuck. C’mon, Rocket. Come for me now. I can’t—”
The first wave pulses down his throat as a hot splash hits my thigh, and I shout my release to the ceiling. I’m still spurting when he sags in my grip, and I pull back, painting his lips and jaw with the aftershocks.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I pant, studying the wreck of him through sated eyes.
He coughs hoarsely as he wavers, and I belatedly gather enough brain cells to help him stumble to his feet, wishing there was enough room in the tub for me to join him there instead.
Bracing his arms on either side of my lolling head, he stares down at me, something deep and primal shining in his gaze.
“C’mere and let me lick you clean,” I say, taking his face in my hands—gentle now, with a gratitude that edges on pain. His tongue swipes out to gather the cum on his lips, but when I go to kiss him, he stops me with a hand on my chest.
“You’re not a piece of shit,” he says. “I shouldn’t have called you that.”
“Why not? It’s usually true.” And I’d usually care, except my whole body tingles with the aftermath of pleasure, and I can barely hold myself standing.
“No it’s not. Look at me. Look at me. You are not a piece of shit. You’re worth something. You’re worth something to me. I need you to hear that.”
Fuck. He’s really gonna make me do this now.
“I hear you.” When he doesn’t reply, I blow out a breath and try to push him away. “I hear you. I’m not a piece of shit. But we should really get ourselves cleaned up before we lose the last of the hot water.”
Instead of backing off, he moves his hand to my throat, pinning me in place and feeding me my own cum with delicate, devastating kisses until I lower my defenses and let myself believe him for a little while.
“Are you okay?” I ask an eternity later when the water has, in fact, run cold, but we can’t seem to let each other go long enough to drag ourselves out of the shower. “I wasn’t too rough?”
Rubbing his throat tentatively, he shakes his head. “Not too rough. I liked it. I loved it.”
“Me too,” I admit, offering a dry smile. “But you got awfully serious for a minute there. After. Want to tell me what you were thinking?”
“I…why does this feel so fucking fragile, Quill? I’m afraid to shine too bright a light on it and discover it’s only made of shadows.” He traces the tattoo of an anglerfish on my thigh. “Not everything survives the scrutiny of the sun.”
I tug him from the shower and pull a towel off the hook, then wrap it around us both to stop his shivers.
“Who’s the sun in this equation? Cheyenne? My family? Fuck that.” Pulling his head into the crook of my neck, I whisper the rest into his ear. “You’re the fucking sun, Rocket. Shine bright and slay my creatures from the deep. I’m ready to be rid of them.”
Famous last words.
Because I’m lying awake hours later, long after Josha has gone heavy and dream-drenched beside me, and my demons are the only thing keeping me company.
I feel fucking fragile.
Restless thoughts skitter through my brain, skipping maliciously over the better parts of the day to dredge up old regrets and lay out new fears for incessant inspection.
Tomorrow will be the first day of my fledgling sobriety, and I hate the panic that beats behind my ribs at the prospect.
This isn’t three weeks of a forced hiatus in county jail.
This isn’t my parents at their wit’s end, tossing me in rehab to get me out of their way while they’re on tour.
It’s not as simple as taking it easy for a few days because Josha’s starting to look at me with real fear instead of disappointment.
This is spending every day sober for the rest of my life, and I have no idea what that looks like. The problem with using substances to escape the worst parts of yourself is that they’re all right there waiting when you sober up.
It’s supposed to be easier when it’s my choice, but if there’s one thing I know about myself, it’s that I make terrible choices. Every fucking time. How the fuck am I supposed to make the right one over and over every time for years?
It’s so impossible my mind can’t close around it.
Cheyenne’s recriminations—and Josha’s subsequent rebuke—chorus all of my insecurities, fastening their heavy anchors to my family’s impending return.
I got off easy on the phone with them today, and it was stupidly naive to think I’d made it through the worst of it.
What happens when their relief wears off and they start asking real questions?
What will I do if Josha decides I’m too much trouble?
Or fucks me out of his system and realizes I was never more than a doomed adolescent crush?
“We can’t spend the next four days in bed.
” What the fuck am I supposed to do with myself when I’m stripped of all my toxic armor, and I have to make an actual plan for a future I’m terrified to believe in?
As much as I wish I could, it’s not fair to ask Josha to be everything for me.
He has a life, and all I can do is hope he’ll make room for me in it.
I still need a life of my own. One with a job that lasts more than a week or two and hobbies that don’t include picking fights or drowning myself in a bottle or flying high on pills.
I need to be a whole person—his Star-Lord—strong enough to stand at his side.
At 3 a.m., I slink into his childhood bedroom, praying that if I wrap myself in its nostalgia, my brain will let me rest.
At 5 a.m., I give up and scribble a note on a gas station receipt, then head out into the predawn to search for a distraction.