Chapter 25 Touch And Go
Touch And Go
ADRIAN
Steam curled through the bathroom, fogging the mirrors and clinging to the tile. I guided him into the shower, hands firm on his hips, steadying him against the slick floor. His hands gripped the bar, knuckles white, and I felt the tension in his muscles, bracing and cautious.
“Lean on me,” I whispered, letting my breath ghost over his ear.
Eli exhaled slowly and shifted a little more weight onto me.
I could feel the trust in that motion, faint but present.
My hands traced down his sides, brushing over wet skin, and I let my fingertips linger at the small of his back.
Each contact was a tether, a reminder that I was here, that I hadn’t let go.
I held him there, feeling the warmth of his body pressed against mine. Every heartbeat, every shallow breath, reminded me how fragile he was and how much I wanted to protect him in every sense. I traced his shoulder blades, rubbed his upper arms, feeling how taut he was, how tense.
Steam and soap wrapped around us in a warm fog that made every nerve light up.
My mouth hovered near his ear, neck, just brushing the skin, the faintest scent of him drifting into my nose.
I held Eli, steadying him, letting him lean on me, giving him permission to be vulnerable in ways he rarely allowed lately.
I wanted more, a hundred different ways, but I held back.
Right now, it wasn’t about me. It was about him, about the trust and safety that would help him heal.
I whispered, “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
He shivered against me, not from cold, but from the closeness, my words and my body.
I let myself enjoy the way he needed me, leaned on me.
A false sense of security, maybe, but it felt real.
For a few stolen minutes, the world outside this bathroom didn’t exist. There were no injuries, no hospital, no past regrets. Just him. Just us.
I held him through it, guiding his hands, letting him guide mine as I washed his chest and shoulders.
His hair brushed against my face when he bent forward, and the sound of the water masked our breathing, our little sighs of comfort and want.
Desire was there, simmering under the surface, but so was patience, restraint, love in its quietest, most tactile form.
My cock hardened against his warm, wet skin.
I slid between his cheeks, just resting it there, letting him feel my desire, how much I needed him.
Eli pushed back, either seeking proof or just friction.
I didn’t know and didn't care. I gave him both.
The soapy glide of my shaft through his crease wrung the most delicious groan from him.
Such a pity I couldn’t fuck him like this.
In that steam-filled stall, I let myself feel it all.
The rhythm of care and attention, leaning on each other, feeling what it meant to need and be needed.
I silently vowed to protect that, to honor it, to be present in every touch, every breath, every quiet moment of this fragile closeness.
Even if all I could give him right now was my hands and the reminder that he wasn’t alone.
By the time the water shut off, Eli’s breathing had gone shallow, his weight sagging against me.
“Easy,” I murmured, catching him under the arms as he wobbled. His skin was flushed pink from the heat, damp strands of hair sticking to his forehead.
“I’m fine,” he said, though the tremor in his voice disagreed.
I grabbed the towel and started blotting him dry, careful around his healing scars, the bruising that still yellowed along his ribs. He swayed once, and I steadied him with a hand to his hip.
“You’re lightheaded,” I said.
“It’ll pass.”
I nodded, but didn’t believe him. I wrapped the towel around his waist and steered him toward the bed, ignoring his quiet protests.
“Sit,” I ordered. He did, barely, the bed dipping under his weight as I kneeled in front of him.
His hands rested on his thighs, trembling slightly.
I could see the effort it took just to stay upright.
“Breathe.”
He exhaled shakily, leaning forward as I reached for the bottle of pills on the nightstand. I shook one out, passed it to him, then lifted the glass of water to his lips when his hands didn’t quite cooperate.
He took the pill, drank, then slumped back against the pillows. His eyelids fluttered. I dabbed the last droplets of water from his neck and chest, then tossed the towel aside.
“You didn’t have to…” he mumbled, already fading.
“Yeah,” I said quietly, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “I did.”
For a moment, I just stood there, watching the rise and fall of his chest. The medicine would kick in soon. The pain would ease.
But the ache in me, the one that came from loving someone this fragile, this far gone, this proud, only deepened.
I sat on the edge of the bed, one hand still resting lightly against his arm, as if keeping him anchored there would keep everything else from slipping away, too.
Eli drifted off, still naked and damp, one arm curled loosely over his stomach, the other trailing off the side of the bed.
I stood there, towel forgotten in my hand, watching him breathe.
Mapping the lines of his beautiful, battered body.
Even after a decade together, it was impossible to look at my husband without feeling desire for him.
The room smelled faintly of soap and steam, a ghost of warmth that clung to his skin. I remembered how many mornings had started like this, our bodies slick against each other, laughter muffled into the sheets, the kind of closeness that made everything else fade to static.
Back then, his body had felt more familiar than my own. I could trace every scar, every mole, every place that made him gasp. Now, it felt like trying to remember a song I used to know by heart and realizing I’d forgotten the tune.
“Idiot,” I whispered to myself. My voice came out hoarse. “You absolute idiot.”
I’d been so careless. So goddamn arrogant. Thinking we had time, that love could run on autopilot while I chased titles and deadlines.
And now here he was, hurt and broken and mine only because he didn’t have the strength to walk away.
I pressed my palms to my eyes until the world went dark.
“Don’t screw it up again,” I muttered. It sounded like a prayer and a threat all at once.
When I woke, the light had shifted. Late afternoon light bled through the curtains, casting the room in a warm glow. Eli was still asleep, his back pressed against my chest, the curve of his body fitting into mine like it always used to.
For a moment, I didn’t move. Just breathed him in. He sighed, the sound quiet and raw, and something deep in my chest caved. I tightened my arm around his waist without thinking, drawing him closer. The heat of him was addictive, grounding in a way I hadn’t let myself feel in months.
“Hey,” I murmured, voice still rough with sleep.
He made a small sound of acknowledgment, and the noise went straight to my gut. My hand drifted lower, tracing the line of his stomach, the soft give of skin and muscle under my fingertips. He tensed, but he didn’t pull away.
“Do you want me to—” I stopped, the rest catching in my throat. My thumb brushed lower, just enough to ask without words. “Do you need a little relief?”
The question felt dangerous the second it left my lips. Too intimate, too familiar for where we were now. But I couldn’t help it. I missed him. Missed touching him, being the person who knew how to ease him, even in small ways.
He went rigid. Then, quiet and final, “No.”
I froze and pulled back slowly, careful not to startle him. “Okay.”
I tried to sound neutral, but it came out tight. It wasn’t the rejection itself; it was what it meant. That there was still a wall between us, one I wasn’t sure how to climb.
He turned slightly, not enough to face me, just enough for me to catch his reflection in the window. His eyes were open, distant, as if he was somewhere I couldn’t reach.
“If you change your mind,” I said softly, “I’m here. Just ask me.”
He didn’t answer. Maybe he thought I didn’t notice how his breath caught, how his shoulders stiffened for half a second before he forced them to relax again.
I stayed anyway, curled around him, letting the silence stretch between us.
Because even if he didn’t want me—not yet—I wasn’t ready to let go of this. Of him.