CHAPTER 53 – CASPIAN
The bathroom lights come on soft and warm.
“You didn’t tell me you have a spa,” Antonio says, almost accusingly. “You even have a bath!”
“Does it make a difference to the task at hand?” I ask, amused by the way his scowl fights with his curiosity.
“No! I just haven’t… done that in a deluxe shower before.”
I can’t help teasing him a little.
“I have. The rainfall effect is a nice touch. Very atmospheric.”
“That’s outrageous,” he splutters.
I don’t know if he’s referring to the plumbing or my activities. Probably both.
He stands in the middle of the room, vibrating with anxious energy. His feelings are a physical hum against his skin.
He lifts his chin when he notices I’m looking at him, but his fingers are trembling.
The only thing I need from him right now is trust. Everything else—the pacing, the safety, the outcome—is my responsibility.
The defiance in his posture is tangled with a desperate need for direction, and that combination gives me an almost terrifying rush of power.
I meant what I said about having to hold myself back.
I know he’d let me take anything I wanted right now. That’s exactly why I can’t. Why I won’t.
Instead of taking, I’m going to give him the safest place he’s ever landed.
“You can put your clothes there,” I say steadily, pointing at a laundry basket.
He acknowledges this with a small nod.
Slowly, he starts undressing.
When he’s down to his boxers, he stops.
“You’re watching,” he says, his voice cracking mid-word.
“That’s what I came here to do. But if you want me gone, I’m gone. It’s your choice.”
He flushes, then strips the boxers off in one sharp, defiant movement.
I let my gaze stay warm and open. It isn’t easy. A part of me wants to carry him to the bed and memorize every inch of him with my mouth.
I know I could make him feel so good.
My good boy.
I could make him beg for me.
Desire shoots through me when I think of him leaning into my touch for safety and comfort.
It’s the hottest goddamn thing, the way he trusts me.
I force myself to concentrate.
Antonio steps into the stall and pushes a button.
The water hits him, and I watch his shoulders finally drop. It plasters his dark curls against his forehead and slides over the lean line of his shoulders.
I keep my gaze above his waist, though I’m finding it hard not to stare where his happy trail leads to.
His breath stutters as he spots the shelf.
“There’s lube next to the shampoo,” I tell him, my voice growing rough.
He hesitates, then pumps some into his hand. Stealing a glance at me, he starts to stroke himself. His eyelashes flutter.
The air in the stall turns thick and humid.
I’m painfully hard.
“You’re so beautiful,” I say.
His gaze flicks to me, then to the bulge in my trousers, then back again.
His throat bobs.
“Keep going. I’m right here with you.”
The sound he makes at my words is small and unguarded. He closes his eyes, trying to find a rhythm.
I undress and step in, explaining what I’m doing.
I stay at the back. I don’t want to crowd him. I won’t touch him unless he asks.
Every few seconds his eyes flicker toward me.
I see the moment he loses his place—his grip tightens, his breathing turns shallow and uneven.
He speeds up, then slows down, trying to find the “right” way to do this.
Then he freezes.
His hand goes still.
His lips press together to stop a tremor.
He looks at me, and his eyes are overwhelmed, pleading, and devastatingly honest.
I see it happen, the exact moment when it becomes too much for him to carry.
I don’t hesitate.
I step under the spray and pull him into me.
“It’s okay, sweetheart.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispers into my chest.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
He wraps his arms tight around me.
“I said so many stupid things. About you and billions of people. About… hating you.”
“It was the heat of the moment. I’m sorry too,” I say, pressing kisses into his wet hair.
His breath is hot and shaky against my skin.
“You’re the only one I’ll ever want. I’ll say it for the rest of our lives if that’s what it takes for you to believe it.”
“You can’t know that for sure,” he sniffs.
“I absolutely can. You’ve got me. Always. As long as you’ll have me.”
He looks astonished.
“Of course I’ll always have you.”
“I was terrified you were going to take one look at me and say I’m not worthy. That I’m damaged goods.”
“What?”
He looks genuinely upset.
“I didn’t mean to imply that.”
He pokes my chest.
“And that’s my boyfriend you’re talking about. Speak more kindly of him.”
He exhales.
“I didn’t realize you get insecure too.”
“Oh, baby,” I say, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Inside this dashing body hides a hopeless, lovesick idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot,” he says, his spark back.
“Not all the time, anyway.”
He presses against me, his cock hardening again.
I kiss him, moving us away from the direct spray.
“Do you want me to take over for you?” I ask.
The relief is evident on his face.
“Please,” he whispers.
I wrap my hand around him, enjoying the feeling of him. Antonio. Stroking him is so goddamn hot I’m close to coming myself.
“You did so good, showing me how you like to touch yourself.”
“Did you—did you like it?”
“Very much,” I say truthfully, stroking him faster.
He lets out a whimper.
“Don’t stop.”
“I’m not stopping. I’m right here.”
Suddenly he groans and bites my chest—a sharp, needy nip.
I ignore my throbbing cock and let him use me.
He fucks into my fist and sucks another bruise on my skin.
“Have you thought about me like this?” I ask, stroking faster. “When you’re alone?”
“Yes,” he groans, his legs beginning to shake. “I’ve never wanted anyone else. Oh God—”
He buries his face in my chest, biting again, trying to hide from the intensity of it.
“It’s too much,” he cries.
“It’s not. I’ve got you. Let go.”
I use the voice I know he likes and keep the strokes rapid, almost relentless.
He tenses, his entire body arching.
“That’s it, baby. Let me see you come.”
He looks at me pleadingly.
“My good boy.”
He erupts against my hand with a small, triumphant cry.
I hold him as he goes limp.
Whispering endearments, I kiss his forehead, his nose, his mouth.
He looks up at me, searching for reassurance. The look in his eyes cracks me wide open.
“Thank you for trusting me,” I say, my voice rough with emotion. “Thank you for coming for me.”
“No one else,” he mumbles, lacing his fingers with mine.