Chapter 16 #2
My cock jerks at the loss of his hand and then again at the sight of him.
The tile is hard and wet and he doesn’t care.
He kneels under the spray with water running down his chest and his dark hair plastered to his forehead and looks up at me.
Green eyes. Wet mouth. On his knees in the Ashford locker room shower with that expression — the one that’s half nervous and half determined and completely devastating.
My stomach clenches. My hand flies to the tile wall to steady myself and I haven’t even been touched yet.
I would do anything for this man. Anything.
“You don’t have to —”
“I want to.” He wraps his hand around the base of my cock. Leans forward. His breath is warm against the head and I grab the shower fixture above me to keep my legs under me.
His lips brush the tip first. Light. Testing. Then his tongue — flat and hot, dragging from his hand all the way up to the head, slow enough that my thighs twitch. He does it again and my grip on the fixture tightens.
His mouth closes around me and my spine locks.
Hot, wet, the pressure of his lips sealed tight as he takes me deeper.
He works his tongue along the underside — finds the ridge below the head that makes my abs seize and presses there, circling, and my hips jerk forward before I can stop them.
He doesn’t pull back. He takes the thrust and adjusts, his hand gripping my hip to control the pace, and the pressure of his fingers against my hipbone is the only thing keeping me from losing it right there.
“Aaron.” His name comes out broken. My free hand goes to his hair — fingers winding through the wet strands, gripping but not pushing.
He bobs his head and water runs down my stomach and over his lips and I can feel the seal of his mouth tighten every time he pulls back, the suction dragging along my shaft.
His hand works the base in counterpoint — tightening on each stroke the way I taught him weeks ago in the Pemberton, and the fact that he remembered that makes the heat coil tighter at the base of my spine.
He pulls back. Works the tip with his tongue — quick, precise, the flat of it pressing against the slit until my vision swims. Looks up at me through his lashes with water streaming down his face.
“Get up here,” I tell him. My voice is wrecked. “Get up here — I want us together when I come.”
He stands. I grab his hips and pull him flush against me and wrap my hand around both of us. My grip is tight, our cocks pressed together, both of us so wet and hard it’s almost too much. I stroke us fast — no teasing, no patience left — and bury my face in his neck.
“Sasha — fuck — I’m close —”
“Me too.” Against his throat. My teeth on his pulse. His hands clutch my back and his nails drag across my shoulders and I stroke us harder, faster, the tile loud with water and our breathing and the sound of my hand on us both.
He comes first. His whole body goes rigid — his fingers dig into my shoulders hard enough to bruise, his hips snap forward, and his cock pulses against mine in my grip.
I feel the first spurt hit my stomach, hot and thick, and then another, and another, spilling over my hand and between our bodies.
His head drops back and his throat is exposed and the sound he makes is broken and raw — my name, wrecked, bouncing off the tile.
The feeling of him coming against me — his cock jerking against mine, the wet heat of it, the way his body shakes and his hands won’t let go — is what finishes me.
The heat at the base of my spine detonates.
My hand tightens around us both and I come so hard my knees buckle, my back slamming against the tile wall, my cock pulsing against his in long, shuddering waves.
I’m groaning something — his name, a curse, Russian that I won’t remember later — and my whole body is seizing, every muscle locking and releasing, and I can feel my release mixing with his between our stomachs, the water washing it down between our feet.
I keep stroking through the aftershocks. Slower. Gentler. My hand loose now, barely moving, just enough to draw out the last tremors. Until we’re both shaking and raw and his hand grabs my wrist.
“Stop. I can’t — too much.”
I stop. My forehead drops against his shoulder. My hand loosens. We stand there under the water, breathing hard, holding each other up, and I can feel his heartbeat through his chest, fast and hard and matching mine.
The shower runs. Steam fills the room.
“That was worth thirty-two takes,” I say against his shoulder.
He laughs. A real one — breathless and loose and completely his. His arms tighten around me.
“It was worth fifty,” he says.
“I’m going to tell Phil we need reshoots. Many reshoots. Every week.”
“Diego would love that. More billable hours.”
“Diego would be so proud of our work ethic.”
He’s still laughing. Quiet now, just the shake of his chest against mine. I lift my head and he’s smiling. Not the careful, managed smile he gives the cameras. The private one. Soft and open and a little stunned, like he can’t believe he gets to have this.
I push his wet hair off his forehead. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t glance at the door. Doesn’t calculate how long until someone might come. He just stands there under the water with his arms around me and lets me touch his face.
This is new. Not the touching — we’ve touched.
But the stillness after. Every other time, there’s been a clock.
Having to leave each other early at the Pemberton.
Cooper texting. The green room door that didn’t lock.
One of us always had to leave, and Aaron was always the one who left first, pulling on his clothes in the dark, already rehearsing whatever lie would explain where he’d been.
Not tonight. Tonight he’s leaning into me, his weight easy against my chest, his thumb tracing a slow circle on my hip. Like he has nowhere to be. Like this is where he belongs.
“Your makeup is gone,” he says. His finger traces a line down my cheek. “You look like you again.”
“Was I not me before?”
“You were you in a costume. Now you’re just you.” His eyes move across my face. “I like just you.”
My chest aches. The good kind.
I kiss the corner of his mouth. The water runs warm between us and nobody is coming and nobody needs us anywhere and I don’t have to set an alarm and neither does he.
“Stay,” I say. “Just — for a minute. Stay.”
He pulls me closer. His lips press against my temple.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says.
I close my eyes. His heartbeat against my chest. The water on my back. His arms around me, solid and warm and not letting go.
Two hours until nine. And nowhere else I’d rather be.