Chapter 15
It takes me less than sixty seconds to get my shirt up over my head and my jeans down around my feet.
Beckett glances back, winks, and sticks his ass out like a dare. “Coming, sir?”
I hold in a rumble that’s dying to spread throughout my chest as I focus on stepping out of my jeans and following him into the shower. My cock thickens just watching him.
He grabs the loofah, pumps soap into the mesh, and starts on me without apology. I let him. He turns me where he wants, scrubbing my back and arms with slow, thorough strokes that say I’ve got you.
My stomach flexes when he moves to my chest, reaching up to play with my nipples. Every twist sends a jolt straight to my dick, which is hard and leaking under the spray. I kiss him, wanting to taste him, and when I pull away he whimpers, causing me to chuckle.
All the laughter is gone when he reaches around and I feel the rough swirl pass over my hole.
A sharp breath hisses through my teeth, and I reel him in, this time frantic with need as I grip his jaw, taking his mouth in a kiss that burns through every last thought.
I’m hard and aching and a little desperate.
A desperation I have never felt before.
He steps back with a soft tsk. “Nuh-uh,” he murmurs, voice low. “I’m going to take care of you.”
The words land like warm hands on cold skin.
I let myself tip into it—the luxury of being tended to, of being seen and serviced.
This right here is the point everything keeps circling back to.
Being cared for hits me like euphoria, a clean burn I’ve chased my whole life.
Call it mommy-and-daddy issues if you want; I’m done apologizing for what steadies me.
We don’t speak. The room speaks for us: the steady rush of water, the slip of breath, the small sounds of devotion.
When he sinks to his knees, the picture sharpens—steam curling around us, water threading down his temples, the hush between us loud with want.
When he’s finished, he stays there, looking up. Water clings like tear tracks. It knocks the air out of me. I cradle his jaw and thumb his lower lip. “Beautiful.”
I stroke myself once, twice, then press my thumb to his mouth.
He opens, and I guide him down, angling him to take my cock.
His nose brushes the trimmed edge of my pubic hair, and the steam turns his lashes glossy.
I hold him there while he breathes and swallows, and that familiar trick of his—God, that trick—pulls me hard toward the edge.
“This mouth was made for me,” I rasp, and his hum vibrates through me in a way that unthreads my knees. I rock deeper, faster, finding a rhythm against the wet heat of his mouth. I’m so close.
“Fuck, yeah. Look at you,” I say. “On your knees for me.” He meets each push with a sure, steady bob. But I’m missing his eyes. I need his eyes.
“Eyes on me, little mouse.”
He looks up, cheeks wet, mouth full, mine in every way that counts. Heat surges. My balls draw up tight before I throw my head back on a shout as rope after rope of my cum slides down his throat.
Beckett eases off and drags his thumb over his lower lip—a quick, satisfied sweep. Reality cuts through the haze when the water turns lukewarm. We’re going to freeze if we don’t move quickly, so I haul him to his feet, turn him to the wall, and set his palms flat.
I lean toward his ear. “Mine.”
“Yours,” he answers, barely more than breath.
I soap my hands and slowly work him over—chest, shoulders, the strong lines of his back—letting the lather and heat do the talking. The shower hushes everything but the sounds he makes for me.
“Tip that gorgeous ass back for me, baby.”
“Yes, sir.”
I groan as the sound of the moniker wraps around my cock and pulls. “Oh, fuck.” I give his ass a couple of slaps, one on each cheek, before getting my finger nice and soapy and swirling it around his hole.
“Mmmmm,” he moans, the sound almost drowned out by the spray.
I press my finger in, slow and patient, until the tight ring of muscle gives way. I turn his face toward mine and catch his mouth. My tongue dances along the seam until he opens as I finger fuck him.
My knees complain, but I drop anyway. He softens around me. I scissor him open, searching until I find the spot, and stay there. He jolts. I smile. Gotcha.
“Beg for it, little mouse,” I murmur.
“Yes… please, yes.”
I lock an arm across his belly, take his cock in my fist, and match my hand to my tongue as I dive in and lap at his hole, devouring the taste of him.
The shower tiles throw his sounds of pleasure back at us—pleas, broken praise, the kind of noises I tell myself he only makes for me.
I keep him right there until all that’s left is surrender.
“More,” he begs. “Please more. I need more.”
The sound of his begging is euphoric. I don’t let up on my assault of his hole—teasing, licking, and sucking—and all the while my hand pumps his cock.
His cries get louder and more frantic. I feel his cock thicken before his entire body tenses. “Oh, fuck, I’m coming.”
Beckett’s body sags against the shower wall, and I sit back on my heels, wishing I had a handrail to help hoist myself up.
With a few cracks and pops, I stand, leaning into Beckett, my chest to his back as his shoulders heave with breaths of air. We stand there, the sound of our breathing drowned out by the…
“Holy—cold, cold, cold!” he yelps, flailing for escape. Our bubble dies on impact, and we both lurch for safety. Beckett tangles himself in the curtain like a frantic moth, while I slap at the faucet like it owes me money. The water goes frigid, and we go feral.
Beckett breaks free, snatches a towel, and burritos himself with the speed of a seasoned professional. He yanks another from the wooden rack in the corner and pelts it at my chest. “Here,” he says, teeth chattering.
I dry off as fast as I can, watching him shiver like an offended chihuahua. “This is your fault,” he says, lips blue, eyes laughing.
“My fault? I was providing stress relief.”
“Your stress relief tried to murder us.”
“Come on,” I laugh, taking his hand and guiding him toward my bedroom. His palm is warm against mine, his fingers tightening for just a second before I let go.
I turn to the dresser, tug open a drawer. “Do you want anything to sleep in?” I call over my shoulder.
When I glance back, he’s already climbing into bed, the comforter rustling around him as he burrows in with a satisfied sigh.
Naked sleeping it is.
A soft laugh escapes me as I shut the drawer. The towel at my waist slips free, pooling at my feet. I lift the covers and slide in beside him. The sheets are cool against my skin until his warmth finds me.
“Come here,” I say.
“I’m pretty sure I’m dead. It’s okay, at least I had the best orgasm of my life before I was plunged into a frozen hell. My dick may never recover.”
I chuckle into his hair. “I’m sure your cock is fine, little mouse, but if you’re that worried, then I’ll volunteer to test its response time every couple of hours.”
“Yes, please,” he says, voice muffled by the comforter.
Beckett shifts until he’s sprawled across me, his head resting on my chest.
“I had fun tonight,” he murmurs. “Your aunt’s amazing. And the food—God, so good.”
I smile, brushing a hand through his hair. “She likes you.”
He hums, content.
“I’m still deciding how I feel about that,” I add, teasing lightly.
“I’m on to you.”
“Oh yeah? And why’s that?” I ask.
“Honestly, I thought you’d be more—” He pauses, searching for the word. “Controlling.”
I huff a small laugh. “You thought I’d be bossy?”
He tilts his chin up, eyes glinting with a mix of mischief and sincerity. “A little, Mr. I Need to Own Your Orgasms.”
I trace a lazy circle across his shoulder, considering. “Guess I just need the illusion of control.”
Beckett’s smile softens. “That’s still control.”
“Are you disappointed?”
He shifts, straddling my hips, his palms braced on either side of me. There’s a flicker of a smile before he leans down, close enough that I can feel his breath.
“Naw. You know there’s more than one kind of control. There’s the kind where you have to dominate everything around you… and then there’s the kind where you just need to feel like your life isn’t slipping out from under you.”
He pauses, voice softening.
“You strike me as the second kind. And I’m here to help give you that… Control me,” he whispers.
My insides feel splayed open, like Beckett is able to peer into the depths of my soul and understand what I need on a fundamental level.
Growing up, I had no control over what was happening around me. When my mother got sick, all I could do was sit back and watch her die. I felt helpless and alone. My father couldn’t have given two shits. He was never home, leaving me to care for her.
“You don’t know what you’re signing up for,” I warn.
“It’s you; I don’t need to.”
“How do you know I’m not some kind of psychopath?”
“Well, let’s see,” he says, rolling his hips, our once-frozen cocks now half hard between us.
“For one, Jaxon trusts you with his business and his friendship. Just the other day, I saw you helping an old lady across the street,” he says, an eyebrow raised.
“What? She had her arms full of bags. She looked unsteady on her feet.” I start to shrug, but he holds my gaze, like he’s not going to let me pretend kindness is an accident.
Wanting to get off this topic of discussion, I bring it back around to him.
“Okay, so you’ll do whatever I tell you?”
He nods. “Anything.”
“Kiss me until we fall asleep.”
He smiles as if he’s just been handed the easiest assignment in the world and leans in, mouth warm and sure.
The first kiss is a slow exhale, the second a promise.
I reach up to turn off the bedside lamp, and he tumbles to the side, laughter soft.
He kisses the corner of my mouth, my cheek, my eyelids.
I bask in the glow of affection. Something I’m not used to.
The kisses keep coming, unhurried. Gentle lips to my temple, a nuzzle at my jaw, the softest press to my nose that makes me smile in the dark.
Tucking him against my chest, one arm curls around his waist. My hand lands on his ass, giving it a gentle squeeze, the other linking our fingers together.
Our rhythm is slow. Kiss, breathe, sink…
kiss, breathe, sink… My thoughts drift to the feel of him, the weight of his palm on my chest, the faint smell of soap and skin surrounds us.
Somewhere between one kiss and the next, my eyes drift shut.
His last kiss lands on my forehead, a soft seal of goodnight.
Even with thoughts of my father swirling above, I’ve never felt so at peace.
“Uh… Earth to Dom?”
“What?” I ask, hammering a nail down and barely missing my thumb.
Jaxon leans on a post, squinting at me like I’m a strange bird he’s been tracking. “What’s going on with you? You seem a million miles away.”
What do I say? That I’m freaking out? I took control and—God help me—showed Beckett what I actually need. Touch. Care. Love. Things I usually keep folded and hidden in the drawer marked “Do Not Disturb.” All week it’s been all I can think about.
Jaxon doesn’t wait for me to form a lie. He kicks the next board toward my boot. “How about we start with why we’re suddenly making your deck bigger?”
“I told you. I was thinking about getting a bigger grill, took measurements, and realized my deck is tiny.”
“Mm-hm.” He gestures with his tape measure. “And how often do you grill?”
I roll my eyes. “Enough.”
Jaxon gives me an all-knowing look.
He hands me another board, and I slot it into place before hammering it down.
“So,” he says casually. “How’s Beckett?”
“Psh. What do you mean?”
Jaxon’s mouth twitches. “Like… has he talked to you about what happened? Why he came home?”
I stop, the drill still pressed to the wood.
When I look up, I see he’s not being nosy; he’s worried.
That loosens something. “He’s okay,” I say.
“I promise.” I tiptoe around the rest. On one hand is his concern, on the other, it’s not my story to share.
There’s a reason Beckett hasn’t told anyone.
“I think he got a little lost for a bit,” I add.
“But he’s got a good head on his shoulders. He’s… happy.”
Jaxon’s eyebrows climb. “Would any of this happiness be because of you?”
“Maybe,” I admit. “But I think a lot of it is because of him. He’s choosing things that feel like him.
” I set another screw, drilling it into place.
Watching Beckett muddle through finding his way makes me look at my own stuff I’ve ignored.
My father and the parole hearing that’s like a rock in my shoe.
The fact that I’m just floating through life with no path forward.
“Beckett has decent instincts. I know he’ll find his way,” Jaxon says.
“More than decent,” I say before I can stop myself, and the warmth that blooms is almost embarrassing.
I clear my throat. “He, uh… he takes care of people. Notices things most folks miss without being overbearing.” I let out a laugh.
“Last week he reorganized my spice drawer alphabetically and then pretended he did it so I could ‘discover a more efficient oregano.’ I guess plain salt and pepper aren’t good enough to cook with.
And when I… when I let him see me, he didn’t flinch. ”
“Ah,” Jaxon says, like a puzzle piece just clicked into place. “So the deck.”
I stare at him. “The what now?”
“The bigger deck,” he says, sweeping his arm at the boards. “You’re making space for a grill, sure—although I’m pretty sure I know who the grill is for—but also for Sunday morning pancakes on the deck with two mugs. Tell me I’m wrong.”
I sigh. He’s not wrong.
By the time the sun tilts low, we’ve got a decent stretch finished. We sit on the edge, legs swinging, looking at the extra space that didn’t exist this morning. A space that I’m potentially taking a gamble on. If I don’t freak myself out in the process.
“Bigger grill?” Jaxon asks.
“Plus a bigger table,” I say. “For family dinners.”
He laughs. “You, Beckett, and the dog you swear you don’t want yet.”
“I never said I didn’t want a dog.” I raise my hand to shield my eyes from the setting sun as I imagine leash hooks by the back door. “It’s just a lot of responsibility.” And maybe the idea of getting a dog with someone sounds more appealing.
God, I miss conversations like this with my best friend.