Chapter 26 Jay #3
Ivan comes first with a guttural, broken moan that echoes off the shower walls, his shaft swelling impossibly thicker in my grip before it pulses again and again, hot ropes of cum shooting over my knuckles, splattering up my stomach and his, mixing instantly with the water but still thick and visible, pearly white against our skin.
"Fuck—fuck, I'm coming," he gasps, hips bucking helplessly as another spurt erupts from that flushed, swollen head, coating both our cocks in his release. I feel every throb, every hot jet, the slick heat of him painting us both, and it's too much.
My own climax slams into me a heartbeat later, brutal and blinding.
My cock kicks hard against his, balls drawing up tight as I start to unload, thick pulses of cum surging out of me in long, messy streaks that mingle with his—my release shooting across his fingers, over his shaft, dripping down to his heavy balls.
"Ivan—shit, coming so fucking hard for you," I choke out, vision whiting out at the edges while pleasure tears through me, sharp and relentless, every muscle seizing as I empty myself between us.
Our hands keep stroking through it, milking every last shuddering spurt from each other, cum-slick fingers gliding over sensitive heads until we're both trembling, oversensitive and wrecked.
We slump together, foreheads pressed, mouths open against each other's skin, gasping hot, ragged breaths as the aftershocks roll through us—little involuntary twitches of our spent cocks still trapped in our messy grip, bodies shaking while the water washes the evidence away in slow, lazy rivulets.
Afterward, the frantic energy drains away, leaving only the soft patter of water and our slowing breaths.
We stay pressed together under the cooling spray for a long minute, foreheads touching, letting the tremors fade.
Ivan's arms are still around me, loose now, protective.
He presses a small, exhausted kiss to the corner of my mouth, then another to my jaw, like he can't quite stop.
I reach blindly for the soap, fumbling until my fingers close around it.
I lather the soap between my palms until it's slippery and fragrant.
I trace the constellation of faint freckles across his shoulders, circling each one with my thumbs as suds bloom white against his flushed skin.
My hands glide down the slope of his back, feeling the long muscles there relax under my touch, the subtle shift of his spine as he leans into me.
When I reach the curve where his back meets his ass, I pause, pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades.
He shivers—not from cold—and sighs my name, soft and reverent.
I keep going, soaping the firm swell of his cheeks, the backs of his thighs, down to the sensitive spots behind his knees that make him twitch and smile.
By the time I turn him around to face me again, his cock has softened, hanging thick and heavy between his legs, still flushed from what we just did, a single bead of water clinging to the tip.
I cup it gently, more care than arousal now, washing him with slow, deliberate strokes, feeling the velvet weight of him in my palm.
His breath catches, but he doesn't harden again; he just watches me with half-lidded eyes, trusting, letting me take care of him.
"Your turn," he murmurs. He takes the soap from my hand, our fingers brushing, lingering.
He starts with my hair, working the lather in with strong, gentle fingers, massaging my scalp in slow circles that pull a helpless hum from my throat.
I close my eyes and lean into it, feeling the tension of the day—of weeks, months—melt away under his touch.
Shampoo suds slide down my neck, over my chest; he follows them with his hands, palms gliding over my collarbones, thumbs brushing my nipples until they tighten, then down the line of my stomach.
He soaps my arms next, lifting each one like he's memorizing the shape of my biceps, the faint veins on my forearms.
When he reaches my hands, he threads our fingers together, washing between them, over my knuckles, as if even this small part of me deserves attention.
Then lower—skimming my hips, cupping my ass with both hands, squeezing gently before sliding forward.
He washes my cock with the same reverence he showed his own: slow, thorough strokes, base to tip, fingers careful around the sensitive head until I'm clean and soft in his hand.
His touch isn't trying to arouse; it's claiming, cherishing, saying mine without words.
We rinse each other under the spray, taking turns stepping fully into the stream.
I tip his head back, smoothing water through his dark hair until it lies sleek against his skull.
He does the same for me, fingers combing through the strands, then trailing down my neck, my back, guiding the water over every inch until no trace of soap remains.
We steal quiet kisses the whole time—soft, lingering presses of lips, no urgency, just connection.
The water finally turns cold, shocking us both into breathless laughter.
Ivan reaches past me to shut it off, his chest brushing mine one last time under the spray.
We step out into the steamy bathroom, skin prickling in the cooler air, and grab the threadbare towels.
They're thin and rough, but it doesn't matter.
I dry his hair first, rubbing gently until it's tousled and damp, then move down his neck, his chest, taking my time over every ridge and hollow.
He returns the favor, patting my shoulders, my back, lifting my arms to dry underneath, even kneeling briefly to towel off my legs and feet.
When he stands again, he wraps the towel around my waist for a moment, pulls me close, and kisses me slow and deep.
"Is sex always like that?" he asks.
"Hell, if I know. I've never done it before. With anyone."
"Me neither." He tilts his head up to look at me. "But I can't imagine it being better than that. With anyone else. How could it be?"
"It wouldn't be," I tell him, and I mean it. "Nothing would ever be better than you."