6. Silas
Silas
Two weeks.
Fourteen days of tiptoeing around each other like we’re walking on broken glass.
Jack is healing, but he’s being stubborn. His bruises are starting to turn yellow at the edges, his eyes less swollen now.
I lay in bed looking at him as he moves against me. He slowly rolls to the side of the bed, and I quickly move to help him up, but he slaps my hand away, “I’ve got this,” his voice rough from sleep, and filled with hint of frustration.
I watch as he slowly stands and he’s panting by the time he takes his first step, heading to the en-suite, closing the door, he shuts me out. Message received.
Hearing the shower turn on, I rub a hand down my face. I know he wants to be independent, but I also know that he’s still in pain.
“Bullshit” I mutter as I head to the bathroom.
Shoving the door open, Jack’s just stepping into the shower, his lean muscular body still peppered in bruises and cuts, water running over every inch of his sinful lean body.
He hasn’t seen me yet, and my breath hisses at the sight he gives me, his cock and balls heavy between his legs, and as he leans for the shampoo, I see his hole just begging to be filled.
Fuck this.
I throw off my clothes, and step in behind him, and he startles as I lean my body against his. My cock settling between his ass cheeks.
“You don’t need to be doing this alone, dove. I can help you shower.” I say, reaching for the body soap.
“I’m fine, Sol,” his voice shaking, but I feel a shiver run through his body as my soap covered hands run over his back.
Pressing my thumbs into his shoulders, a moan breaks from his throat when I hit a sensitive spot. His head drops back, and I press a kiss to his throat as my finger tips trace his spine, before moving them to grip his hips.
“I’d say, it’s mutually beneficial, baby.” I say as I kiss the nape of his neck.
He turns his head, staring at me like I’m an idiot. “Sol, I can’t,” he says, his hips pushing back against my cock.
I smile against his skin, a small laugh breaking free as I place his hands on the wall in front of him.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to fuck you. You’re still too broken for that.” I look at him and lean in, whispering against his ear, “yet.”
He sucks in a breath as I wrap my hand around his cock, and give him a long pull, his head dropping back onto his shoulders.
“Sol…” My name whispered like a prayer.
My hand moves slowly, stroking him, as I watch his mouth drop open. Leaning down, I press my lips to his, my tongue licking slowly into his mouth. Pulling back, I take his bottom lip between my teeth, sucking it gently, and I give an appreciative hum as he moans against my mouth.
My hand matches my thrusts as my cock slides up between his cheeks, my arm wrapping gently around his shoulders to hold him against me. His breathing is erratic now as he chases his orgasm.
Kissing him, I whisper against his mouth, “Come for me, baby.”
“Sol…” his voice cracking around my name.
A few more flicks of my wrist, and I watch my boy fall apart in my arms, his body going stiff as his cum shoots onto the wall in front of him.
I push my hips faster against him, and a beat later, my cum coats his crease, mixing with the water washing it away.
“Good boy,” I murmur against his skin, feeling him whimper that small sound he makes when he’s overwhelmed and trying to pull himself together, I whisper, “Come on, sweet boy.” I reach for the body soap and guide him gently back against the wall, keeping my movements against his skin slow and careful. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
I feel the remnant twitch of muscle under his skin as I run my hands over his body, gently cleaning every inch of him.
Five minutes later, I have him standing in the middle of the bathroom where I run a towel over him, drying him carefully checking each bruise and cut, making sure nothing reopens.
He leans into me. “Thank you, Silas,” he whispers, exhaustion softening his gorgeous face.
I look at him for a moment, taking in his damp curls, his hair the colour of chocolate, his eyes the colour of deep caramel.
His sharp jaw, the one I love to nip at, and those high cheekbones that could cut glass, my boy is stunning to look at.
I rest my hand against the back of his neck, thumb brushing lightly over his skin.
“It’s okay, dove,” I say softly. “I’ve got you. Always.”
* * *
I’m in the kitchen with Hale and I hear the front door shut, as another of Jack’s visitors leave. “This place is like a fucking train station…” I complain, rubbing a hand over my face.
Hale laughs, and says “You would think people would let him rest.” before putting a massive amount of casserole into his mouth.
“Mmm. You would think.”
I know people mean well, but I also know that Jack needs rest, and he isn’t getting it when we have a constant revolving door of people coming to check in on him.
Every time he closes his eyes, someone knocks, to just “pop in.”
And every time I try to get him to lie down, Hale is climbing up beside him like a barnacle with a tablet.
I get it, I really do; people care about him. But caring doesn’t mean crowding.
And, I swear to God, if one more person shows up with a casserole, I’m going to start throwing them back out the door like Frisbee’s.
Jack pretends he hates the fuss. He rolls his eyes; he complains, muttering under his breath. But I see the way he softens when people talk to him, and I see the way he looks almost surprised when someone says they’re glad that he’s okay.
He won’t admit it, but I know he likes being wanted, and I also know he doesn’t know what to do with that.
Me? I would kill for a bit of peace.
I long for the day where there’s an hour where it’s only him and me and the sound of him breathing without pain. Just an hour where I’m not watching him pretend he’s fine, and where I can talk to him without someone barging in, or Hale launching himself onto the bed like a missile.
I watch as Hale heads out of the kitchen, and no doubt heading back to Jack when I hear the front door slam open with a sharp, familiar thud.
I sigh because there is only one person who enters my house like he owns the place.
Footsteps barrel down the hall, too fast, too confident and too full of chaos to belong to any of the locals.
I sigh into my coffee. “Here we go,” I mutter.
Before I can even set my mug down, the new King of Chaos walks into the kitchen, and I don’t even get a “Welcome back,” out, before Finn speaks, anger in his tone.
“Where is he?”
I motion towards the lounge, “He’s with Haze.”
Finn nods once, sharp and purposeful. “Good. We’re about to have a little chat.”
“Be nice, Finn.” I warned him, my tone firm.
Finn pauses mid-stride, turns his head just enough to look at me, one eyebrow raised as if I’ve personally offended him.
“Silas,” he says, voice dripping with mock innocence, “I’m always nice.”
Deck snorts behind him, earning him a slap on the chest.
“I mean it Finn.” I warn again.
I know my warning falls on deaf ears as Finn looks at me, his expression changing to anger, “I’m done being nice. I know exactly what that fucker has been doing, and it stops today.” Finns’ voice is sharp enough to cut glass.
He turns, reaches up, and kisses Deck on the cheek, “I’ll be right back, Lumberjack,” he says, already moving.
Deck huffs a quiet laugh, but his eyes track Finn like he’s ready to intervene if necessary. Finn leaves the kitchen with that determined laser-focused stride he gets when he’s about to bulldoze someone emotionally.
I call after him again, “Finn.”
“Silas, I am being nice.” He calls over his shoulder. “This is me being nice.”
Deck snorts again and I glare at him.
“What?” he shrugs, “I’m engaged to chaos; what did you expect.” He walks to me, placing his hand on my shoulder. “Rook, he was worried. I told him we didn’t have to come back early, but he wasn’t having it. He wanted to get back to Jack, and make sure he is okay.”
“I know, but he’s gotta be careful with Jack, right now. Jacks fragile, and he still hasn’t told me everything.”
I have that mix of dread, resigned acceptance and a little confusion over this whole situation, and I’m just about to talk to Deck when I hear;
“Finn!”
“What the actual fuck, Jack!”
Jack and Finn speaking at the same time.
“Oh shit,” Deck says, his voice low, already turning and walking out of the room. I follow and as I round the corner, I take in the two men in the room.
Finn has stopped dead in the middle of the room, his eyes rake over Jack as he takes in his injuries– the stiffness in his body, the faint, fading purple blooming along his jaw, the slow, careful way he breathes.
I watch as Finn’s gaze drop to Jack’s chest, following each measured inhale like he’s counting them, and I feel the air in the room turn to ice.
Jack sits on the couch with Hale, trying to untangle his tablet charger again, but his hands are frozen mid-air and he’s glaring at Finn.
Hale is quiet, wide eyed, eyes flicking between the two men. Finn stands there, anger radiating off him, fists clenched so tight his knuckles have gone white, jaw locked hard enough to crack teeth.
Oh, he’s pissed.
Deck moves and steps up behind him, posture steady, eyes sharp, ready to intervene if Finn explodes.
Jack swallows, shoulders tightening as I hear a sharp intake of air. He knows that look. He knows Finn doesn’t “chat.” No, Finn interrogates and keeps digging until he drags truth out of people like he’s mining for gold.
And right now, Finn looks like he’s about to tear the whole house apart to get answers.
I step forward, voice low. “Finn.”
He ignores me, taking a small step toward Jack.
“You’ve been fighting again,” Finn says. It isn’t a question. It’s a flat, cold accusation loaded with a fury that makes the hairs on my arms stand up.
But I also want to see what Jack says.