Chapter 14 Brody
brODY
I can tell he’s there before I see him.
The prickly awareness between my shoulder blades is a familiar sensation. His eyes are on me, tracing every drop of water trickling down my body. Along my shoulders, down my spine and locking on my ass. It takes every ounce of my self-control not to flex.
Instead, I let the water beat down my neck and pretend I don’t notice him watching me.
I rinse shampoo from my hair and soap the last of the chalk and sweat from my skin. My body is loose from practice and the extra reps I took to draw it out, but there’s a tight, insistent pulse between my legs that has nothing to do with wrestling, exercise, or the hot water beating down on me.
I rinse, drag my hands over my face, and only then do I turn.
Beck is standing at the edge of the tile, just inside the entrance to the shower room. Still in his practice uniform with a hoodie wrapped around his waist, hair damp with sweat, and staring at me like I’m something to be feared.
Or like he hasn’t slept in four days. Which, knowing how long I’ve been teasing him, might be true.
He’s been more on edge than usual. I’m surprised our last interaction stuck with him as much as it has.
He was so incensed when I wouldn’t get him off without hearing him say those simple words, I almost thought I’d actually pissed him off and pushed him away.
I thought I’d have to go to him and change the rules so we could keep playing.
I turn off the water, and the sudden quiet rings in my ears. My lips tilt up in an easy grin.
“Need something?” I ask, reaching for my towel like I don’t already know.
He swallows. His eyes flick down my body, then away so fast I can’t help but chuckle. Just to fuck with him, I dry my body with the edge of the towel and focus most of my energy on my hair, leaving my body bare.
My cock is hard and pointing right at him.
I know he’s interested because he’s not just cutting his eyes at it in fear or dismay.
No, there’s lust there, too. Thick, powerful lust that makes me want to take him and ruin him so thoroughly, he’ll drop all his silly straight-boy scripts and beg me to make him come every single day for the rest of his life.
He already knows I’ll make it so good for him.
That no one else can play him the way I can, because I’ve latched on to every nuanced facial expression, every sharp intake of breath and flash of fiery lust in his eyes.
He doesn’t want to admit it, but he wants me.
He wants me to make him come because he knows his own hand can’t make him free fall into oblivion like I can.
He wants to say it. I can tell. It’s right there, clogging his throat—want and pride, strangling each other.
I’m going to burn his privileged pride to ash, strip away every half-truth and excuse and leave him with nothing but the part of him that belongs to me. The part of him that’s blushing and shaking and begging for more.
“Hey,” I say, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. My voice comes out low, roughened by the steam and the way my pulse jumps when I look at him. He looks rough and desperate, but doesn’t seem to notice any weakness on my part. “What’s up?”
Beckett’s jaw works. His hands curl into fists at his sides. He looks like he’d rather chew glass than admit he wants anything from me, but he still takes a step closer.
“I—” He licks his lips. “We need to talk.”
“Do we?” I tilt my head, maybe a little cruel. “About what?”
“About what you said in the bathroom.”
“Darlin’, that was almost two weeks ago. Care to refresh my memory?”
His face flushes darker. I witness his battle of internal conflict, rage and pride competing with desperation and devastation. His pride is killing him, but the need is killing him more.
Oh. My. God.
“Becky,” I breathe, astonished. Has he been… holding off entirely? I told him I wouldn’t make him come, but did he interpret that as not being allowed to come at all?
And he fucking obeyed?
He stands there, eyes huge and begging, even though he can’t bring his mouth to say the words. Even though he’s clearly in actual physical pain.
No fucking wonder he’s been such an asshole lately.
I toss the towel over the wall and consider turning the shower back on to cold to calm myself down.
“Get on your knees.”
He drops. Just like that, without hesitation. No fight. Immediate obedience, like his body has been waiting for the command.
Because he has been waiting for it.
A slow, satisfied heat uncurls in my chest.
“So,” I murmur, looking down at him. “You’ll get on your knees, suck my cock, and lap up everything I give you like a cat, but you have too much pride to say a few simple words?”
His throat bobs.
“Crawl to me,” I growl.
He stiffens for just a second. Then he does it. On the cold, wet tile, his muscles flexing under his clothes, hands squelching through puddles of water, he crawls forward, all the way until he’s barely a foot away from me.
My breath punches a little shorter. I have half a mind to give him what he wants and give him a break. I cannot believe he hasn’t made himself come in twelve days, all the while punishing himself for following a command he thinks I gave him.
When he stops at my feet, I rest my fingers lightly in his hair, softly combing the front back from his sweat-dampened forehead.
“Do you want me to touch you?” I ask, keeping my voice steady. “You say no, I back off and we forget this whole thing.”
He squeezes his eyes shut.
“I…” His voice is a strained whisper. “I want to come.”
It’s not all he wants, but it’s a start. His determination is impressive, but I see an opportunity to burn a little more of that bullshit pride away. And I’m damn well going to take it.
I curl my fingers, tug his head back so he has to look up at me. “Then say it.”
He shakes his head, panic flaring in his eyes. “Don’t make me.”
“I’m not making you do anything,” I say calmly, my voice purposefully low and melodic. “I’m offering. You’re choosing. You want my help? You say the words. If you don’t want to play anymore, you can get up and walk away. Or use your safe word and I’ll walk away.”
His jaw clenches. His gaze drops. He’s breathing like he just finished running sprints for an hour. His silence is so loud it’s deafening.
“Strip,” I say.
There’s a moment of hesitation, the briefest second of time between my giving the order and his brain processing it.
He’s on his feet in the next second, cheeks burning as he peels off his hoodie, which was doing a truly poor job of hiding the monster erection he’s packing.
He kicks off his wet shoes and socks as he pulls his snug team tank top over his head.
The shorts are next, and then he’s down to nothing but his tight white compression shorts.
Those last inches of fabric are straining over him, front soaked, clinging to every ridge of his cock so tightly, I can see the thick vein that runs up the length of his shaft.
“I said strip,” I remind him softly.
He swallows and pushes the compression shorts down, baring himself completely. His cock is flushed, heavy, and glistening at the tip. He’s already leaking so much, it drips to the floor.
I walk slowly around him, letting him feel me circling him like he’s prey. Letting the air and the waiting sink their teeth into his already frayed nerves.
“Looks painful,” I murmur. “How long has it been, Becky?”
He squeezes his eyes shut. “Don’t—”
“Days?” I continue as if he didn’t speak. “Weeks?”
Beckett lets out a small, breathy whimper.
“Were you waiting for me? Or have you been touching yourself?”
I leave a long enough pause that he knows I expect an answer. “I tried,” he admits, keeping his eyes clenched tight. “I couldn’t—”
He cuts himself off before he can admit just how much of a hold I’ve had over him these past weeks.
“Couldn’t what, Becky? Couldn’t make yourself come? Or didn’t want to?” I want him to admit the truth to me. I’ll force him if I have to.
“I didn’t want—”
I tsk and pet his hair. “You didn’t want what? Didn’t want to make yourself come? Didn’t want to admit how much you wanted me to make you? Is that why you waited for me?”
“I didn’t want to wait!” he rasps. “You got in my head, and I couldn’t—I couldn’t make myself come, okay?”
Holy fuck, that’s… hot. And kind of amazing. To have that kind of power over someone else. It’s heady and intense.
I reach out and touch him lightly with just the tips of my fingers. With a barely there touch, I brush over the dark, swollen head of his cock, gather a slick bead and pull back.
He hisses like I burned him, and his knees buckle a little.
“Easy,” I say, and because I can’t resist, I lift my fingers to my mouth and lick them clean.
The sound that escapes him is low and wrecked—half pain, half reverence. All desperate.
It’s intoxicating.
I step back to give us both a second, turning on some of the nearby showerheads to muffle the sounds I know I’m going to draw out of him.
My own cock is heavy and aching at the mere sight of the great Lincoln Beckett brought to such dire straits because of me.
I wrap my hand loosely around myself, pumping in slow, firm strokes as I watch his visibly throbbing cock strain and leak, dripping onto the floor.
“Kneel.”
He sinks without protest this time.
Water patters on his shoulders from the showerhead over. His hair is damp, his cheeks are pink, and there’s a brightness in his eyes I haven’t seen before. It’s something more desperate and raw than he was even in the stairwell the first time I made him come.
“You want my cum?” I ask, voice low.
His lashes tremble. “Yes.”
“Where?”
He swallows. “Anywhere. I don’t care. Just—please. Please let me come too.”
I hum, lazily working my fist, watching every twitch in his face. “You know what I want to hear.”
His jaw flexes. He shakes his head again, stubborn to the end. He can deny it all he wants, but he came here for a reason. He listened and obeyed for a reason.
I walk around his body and get to my knees next to him so he can feel the heat of my body, smell the soap and mutual need on my skin. My hand moves a little faster on myself, breath hitching as my fist bumps against his hip with each stroke.
“Say it,” I murmur.
“No,” he rasps, though his hips jerk at the word like defying me turns him on.
“Say it,” I repeat, firmer.
He blinks his eyes furiously, shoulders hunched, like the syllables themselves might kill him. “Please, Brody—”
My hand moves faster, the slick sounds of my fist working my cock audible over the hum of excitement and splash of water on the tile. “Say it,” I snap, raising my voice over the sound of the shower, letting it crack like a whip.
He flinches. Tears shimmer in the corners of his eyes, falling when he clenches them shut, frustration and humiliation and need all tangled together.
“Say it,” I demand again, moving behind him and bending closer so he can feel my breath on his shoulder blade. “You want me to give you what you’ve been begging your fist for all this time?”
His breathing turns ragged, borderline sobbing. “Please,” he chokes. “Please, I can’t—I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.” My tone softens just a fraction. My free hand slides around his hip, gently caressing the rash of goosebumps that erupt, pressing my thumb into a dimple at the top of his ass. “I’ve got you,” I say against his skin. “Just say it, and I’ll take care of you.”
His lips tremble, and for a second I think he’s going to bolt again. But then he shatters so beautifully, it nearly brings tears to my eyes.
“I’m a good girl,” he wails, the words tearing out of him on a sob. “I’m your good girl—”
That’s it.
The sound of it, the way he says your good girl snaps something inside me. I groan, hips jerking as release hits me hard, hot and sharp. I spill across the small of his back, streaking his skin, his spine, his hips while he kneels there shaking and confessing everything he’s been fighting.
“That’s fucking right you are,” I pant, squeezing the last of it from myself.
For a moment, all I hear is water and his breathing. He’s still on his knees, shoulders heaving, hands fisted on his thighs. The muscles in his back twitch under my gaze, adding to the quaking of his trembling body.
I slowly drag my hand through the mess on his skin, spreading it in lazy circles over the small of his back, the curve of his hips. He shudders under my touch, but he doesn’t pull away.
“Hey,” I murmur, softer now. “Breathe. You’re okay.”
I keep my palm broad, steady, massaging it in like lotion, like I’m grounding him instead of just marking him. His breathing gradually evens out, the wild edge smoothing.
“That’s it,” I soothe. “Good. You did so good for me.”
He makes a broken sound, head hanging.
“You want to come?” I ask.
His answer is desperate and immediate. “Yes. Please—”
I smile against his shoulder, then reach around and wrap my hand around him at last.
He jerks like he’s been shocked, knees sliding a little on the slick tile.
“Shh. I’ve got you.”
I barely squeeze his cock and give him one firm pull before he erupts.
He spills with a shout, his body bowing forward, hands slapping against the wet tile to catch himself. My name is garbled out on an anguished wail, the sound echoing off the empty walls, raw and unguarded.
I slow my hand, easing him through it, then let go.
He sags, breathing hard.
I shift around to face him and gently tip his chin up with my fingertips, leaving a streak of our combined release on his jaw that I don’t bother wiping away. His eyes are glassy and unfocused, lips parted and panting, cheeks flushed.
He looks wrecked. Beautifully, gloriously wrecked.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” I ask softly, dropping a soft kiss to his forehead.
He swallows and makes a sound, maybe trying for some snarky comeback, but nothing comes out. Just a small, bewildered sound.
I smile and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth this time. He goes still, reminding me that even now, in this broken state, he’s still fighting this.
“Next time you want to come,” I murmur against his skin, “you won’t wait so long to find me, will you?”
His breath catches. He doesn’t answer, but the way his body stiffens and the way his eyes flick up to mine then away lets me know he heard me.
I don’t think I’ll need to wait as long for him to break on the next round.