Chapter 12 #3
The constellation of freckles across his shoulders. The way his collarbones—studded with dark bruises—stand out beneath his skin. The flat plane of his stomach. The trail of dark hair disappearing into his waistband.
My mouth waters with the need to taste his skin. My fingertips tingle with the desire to touch him.
And that’s even before I notice that his nipples are tight against his skin.
Fuck .
I swallow hard and reach for the washcloth, focusing on his injured arm first. I work in slow, gentle circles, wiping away the adhesive residue the hospital left behind.
“You’re so good at this,” he sighs.
“Washing arms?” I laugh. “Years of practice.” I lift my own in demonstration.
“No. I meant taking care of me.” He gives me a lopsided smile, and I can’t tell if it’s because he’s feeling the same high from me touching him that I’m feeling, or because of the meds I gave him.
I move to his shoulders, wiping away grime and soot the hospital didn’t quite get. His muscles bunch and shift under my hands, tensing when the cloth passes over a bruise, then relaxing again. He sighs a little, and I blow out a breath.
It’s exactly like I told Anna—I want to make him feel good. For now, that means easing his aches and soothing his hurts. But someday?—
Still getting ahead of ourselves , I remind myself sternly.
When I grab a fresh washcloth for his face, he tips his head back slightly, trusting me. I wipe across his forehead, down his temples, along his stubbled jaw. The whole time, wide blue eyes track my movements.
“Close your eyes,” I murmur hoarsely, and he does.
I wash his eyelids gently, then down the bridge of his nose. His lips part slightly as I move the cloth over them, and when I move down to his neck, he manages to tilt it a little to give me better access. His pulse jumps under my fingertips, fast and unsteady—just like mine.
I don’t think Ames has ever been this passive and quiet in his entire life, and it feels like a gift. A reminder that this is what we are to each other… and a promise that maybe we can be more.
Ames opens his eyes, and for a long moment, we just look at each other. His pupils are dilated— from the meds , I tell myself firmly, though I really want to believe there’s something there too.
“Thanks, Rob,” he says softly.
I clear my throat. “My pleasure, Amesie. Always.”
This is enough for now , I tell myself. You’ve waited sixteen years to get this far; you can wait until he’s well.
But not twelve hours later, that resolution gets tested.
“Just get me in the shower, and I’ll take care of the rest,” Ames insists. “That’s why True brought over the shower bench.”
He’s propped on the closed toilet, fully clothed and glaring at me.
Unfortunately, he’s also got bed hair—or, I guess, couch hair, since that’s where both of us ended up sleeping last night—and three full days of rough beard growth, which combine with his lethal glare to make him look like a sexy, disgruntled pirate kitten.
It’s fucking hot.
Meanwhile, I’m busy stripping off my shirt and pajama pants. When I’m in nothing but boxers, Ames shifts his glare to the glass shower door, which is already getting foggy with steam.
“If you can think of a way to wash your hair and body without lifting your arms, I’d love to hear it.” I fold my own arms over my chest. “You said even your left arm doesn’t like it when you lift it that high.”
When Ames remains silent, I continue. “Come on, Ames. You wanna be clean, I’m here to help.”
We’ve been naked around each other plenty. In locker rooms, at the river in the summer. This shouldn’t be a big deal for either of us.
Of course, now it is, for me. But I’m on my best behavior.
I refuse to notice how my hands shake as I help him ease his shirt over his head.
Ames has bruises I haven’t seen. Dark purple blooms across his back, like he was dropped on something solid—which I guess he was. And that reminder of how close I came to losing him makes it impossible to resist the urge to trace the bruise with my thumb .
Ames shivers. “I’m… chilly. We should, ah… get a move on.”
“Yeah.” I help him stand on one foot, then bend to help him shuck his sweatpants. When I reach for the waistband of his boxers, his good hand shoots out and catches my wrist.
I freeze. “Problem?”
“N-no.” His voice comes out high and choky. He clears his throat and moves his hand away. “Guess you’ve seen it all before.”
I have, but not like this. Not in my bathroom. Not when I’m the one slowly pulling fabric down his hips while he watches. Not when I’m thinking about all the ways I’d like to get him dirty before I clean him up.
This is very fucking different.
I help him step out of his boxers, and for a second, I let myself look—really look. He’s soft and uncut, resting heavy against his thigh, and I have to swallow before forcing my attention to getting him settled on the shower bench.
I’m acutely aware that my underwear’s barely hiding my reaction… and I decide I don’t care if he sees. I want him to.
When I glance up, Ames’s gaze is traveling slowly over my chest, my stomach, lower .
He catches himself and looks away quickly, color rising in his cheeks and his good hand moving to cover his own cock.
How long has he looked at me that way? How many times have I missed it because I wasn’t looking for it?
I adjust the shower spray, aiming it at his back. The water sluices down his muscles and dampens his curls .
“I’ll start with your back,” I say, reaching for the soap.
The first slide of my hands over his skin makes him suck in a sharp breath.
“Hurt?” I ask.
“N-no,” he nearly moans. “Feels… really good.”
I work my way down his back, trying to stay clinical and detached but failing epically .
His skin’s warm and slick, and I can feel the tension in his muscles, the way his breathing changes.
When I dip my fingers to the small of his back, just above the cleft of his ass, he makes a sound low in his throat.
“I’m just… getting the soap everywhere,” I murmur. “To be thorough.”
“Thorough,” he repeats. “Good.”
When I come around to his front, I kneel on the wet tile between his legs and… Jesus Christ . Water streams down his chest, catching on the smattering of dark hairs, his tense stomach muscles, and his hand still trying valiantly to cover his cock.
It’s impossible not to see his dick is hard now, flushed and full, and begging for my hand.
I swipe my hands over his torso and try to avoid looking—let alone touching —anything lower.
I cannot touch him right now, not like that, no matter how much I want to.
Not while he’s injured and uncomfortable, not while there’s so much we still have to discuss, not while I’m still engaged, not when—as far as I know—his reaction is just a biological reaction to stimuli that has nothing to do with me in particular.
Ames doesn’t seem to have any compunctions about looking, though his looks are still furtive and sneaky. I can feel his gaze on my cock—hotter than the water, heavier than gravity—and it’s making me even harder. I’m a fucking compass pointing north, and my balls are tight and aching.
I keep expecting him to say something—Ames never misses an opportunity to call me on something—but he doesn’t. And fuck knows I’m not gonna talk about it. So the tension between us builds hotter and thicker than the steam from the shower.
“H-hair,” I say, scrambling to my feet so I can stand behind him.
I start working shampoo through his dark curls, thinking this will be better, easier. Because I can’t want what I can’t see, right? But as my fingers massage his scalp, he makes a soft, helpless, wanting sound that shoots straight through me.
I grab the removable showerhead. “Could you… would it hurt to tilt your head back a little so I can rinse you?”
Ames moves like he’s in a dream, eyes closed as he tips his head back to lean against my hand. My dick is inches away from him. Centimeters. If he turned his head?—
I blow out a harsh breath. “Keep your eyes closed,” I warn.
I rinse the bubbles away while running my fingers over his hairline to keep the water out of his eyes. But I can’t stop my gaze from wandering down past his torso—where his injured right arm rests—to his cock, which is less covered by his good hand and more… grasped in it .
He’s completely exposed like this. Vulnerable and wanting. The trust in every line of his body makes me feel like the strongest man alive.
Just like last night, my palms are twitching with the need to take care of him. Not just by washing his hair, but by leaning down and wrapping my hand around him.
The restraint is fucking agony . For both of us, I’m pretty sure.
Ames’s eyes pop open, and he catches me looking. His pupils widen, black nearly eclipsing the blue.
“Rob.” It’s barely a whisper, and my fingers tighten in his hair.
I should say something, should move, should tell him?—
Fuck. I can’t tell him anything. Not like this. Not today. Not yet.
“Y-your legs,” I croak. “Do you want me to?—?”
“No! No.” He blows out a breath and straightens as much as he can on the stool. His voice is clipped and formal as he goes on. “Can you hand me the soap, please? And the shower hose, also? And maybe… give me a few minutes? I’d like to just sit here. The, um, the warmth feels good on my bruises.”
We both know that’s not why he’s asking me to leave.
I can see it in the flush spreading across his chest, in the way his good hand is gripping the edge of the bench.
Hell, I can feel it in my own cock, which is throbbing in time with my racing heartbeat.
“Yeah.” My voice comes out rough. “Of course, Amesie. Take your time.”
I step out of the shower, grab a towel, and leave the bathroom, pulling the door closed behind me. Then I bang my head against the wall by the door so hard, I wonder if Ames can hear it over the sound of the water.
Is this best behavior, Robert? The voice in my head sounds weirdly like Ames, which doesn’t help matters .