Chapter 16 Tex #2
My hands glide down over his neck, shoulders, chest. Palms flat over his pectorals, feeling the steady thump of his heart, the faint ridges of ribs.
My thumbs circle his nipples slowly; they pebble under the touch, and he gasps, head tipping back against the tile.
Water traces paths down his throat, over collarbones, between us.
He's trembling. Not from cold, or fear. From want. He's shaking because my hands are on him and he wants them there.
He wants me.
"You're beautiful," I tell him. "I need you to hear that. You are the most beautiful person I have ever seen in my life, and I have wanted to tell you that since the day I found you."
His eyes open, glistening. "Nobody's ever said that... not like they meant it."
"I mean it. Every word. You take my breath away every time I look at you."
I kiss his neck, the pulse point fluttering under my lips, the hollow of his throat, the slope of his shoulder. When my mouth finds the sensitive spot behind his ear, he moans, fingers tightening on my sides. The sound is soft, unguarded, pure pleasure.
"I used to watch your hands," he whispers, "and be afraid of how strong they are. How much they could hurt." Water runs between our bodies. "Now... I can't stop imagining how good they feel. How gentle."
My hands settle on his hips, thumbs stroking slow arcs over sharp hip bones. I'm breathing hard, fighting to stay steady, because his words are undoing me.
"These hands will never hurt you," I promise. "Not tonight. Not ever. They're yours, Stormy. Everything they do is for you."
His touch grows bolder. Palms skim my chest, down my stomach, feeling muscles flex and tighten. He looks up, eyes heavy-lidded, dark with want, no fear.
"I want to touch you," he says.
"Then touch me. Anywhere. However you want. I'm yours."
His hand drifts lower, fingers trailing through the coarse hair below my navel, then brushing my cock, light at first. Fingertips map the length, the thickness, the vein pulsing along the underside.
Then he wraps around me, tentative grip learning the heat, the hardness, the slickness at the head.
I hiss, hips twitching forward involuntarily.
The sound I make is not something I'm proud of.
It comes from somewhere deep and primal and it fills the small bathroom.
His eyes go wide and then dark, watching my face, watching what his hand does to me, and a flicker of wonder crosses his expression.
The realization that he can make me feel this way, that his touch is wanted, that the same hands he's used to fend off pain can also give pleasure.
I brace my hands on the wall beside his head to steady myself. He's careful, stroking slow, thumb circling the sensitive crown on each upstroke, spreading precome until the glide is smooth and slick. Every pass makes my thighs tense, breath ragged.
"Stormy... you have no idea what you do to me. How much I want you."
I reach between us, wrapping my hand around his cock. He gasps, forehead dropping to my chest. His hips jerk forward, and the sound he makes is the most honest sound I've ever heard another human being produce. Raw and open and stripped of everything he uses to protect himself.
His cock throbs in my palm, hot, rigid, slick at the tip. I stroke gently, matching the rhythm he's set on me, thumb sweeping over his slit, collecting wetness, spreading it down the shaft.
"Okay?" I check.
"Yes... don't stop."
"Look at me, baby. I want to see your eyes."
He lifts his head and his eyes find mine. They're so open it hurts to look at them. All the walls down. All the armor off. Everything he's been hiding since the day I found him, laid bare in the space between us, and the trust in those eyes is so fragile that I would rather die than break it.
"This is what it's supposed to feel like," I say, hand moving steady and slow. "When someone wants you. Who wants to make you feel good too."
"I didn't know," he breathes. "I didn't know it could feel like this."
"It will. Every time. I promise."
We move together, his hand on my cock, mine on his, slick with water, bodies pressed tight.
His grip firms as he learns what I like.
Firmer pressure, twisting slightly at the head and I mirror him, reading every hitch in his breath, every tremor.
His hips rock into my fist; mine nudge into his hand.
His breath comes in short, ragged bursts and his hips are moving with my hand and his whole body is trembling with a tension that's building toward something he might not have ever felt like this before. Not like this.
"Tex." He groans my name, desperate and raw. "Tex, I'm… I'm going to..."
"I've got you." Same words from the water. Same promise. "It's okay to let go. I'm here. Not going anywhere. It's okay."
His body arches against mine and I feel him throb in my hand, feel the hot pulse of him spilling over my fingers, his cock jerking with each wave.
The sound he makes is muffled against my chest, raw and shattered and free.
His whole body shakes with it — thighs, stomach, the hand still gripping me — and I hold him through every second, my fist still moving slow, drawing it out, letting him feel all of it.
Watching him. Feeling him.
That's what takes me over the edge. His face against my chest and his body shaking and the trust of it, the absolute, total, devastating trust of this man who has never been safe with anyone letting himself be this vulnerable with me.
I groan loudly, hips jerking as I come in his hand, pulsing thick and hot against his skin. The release crashes through me, starting where his touch is and radiating out until my knees threaten to buckle.
We stand there, both of us panting. Arms around each other. His face tucked against my chest, mine resting on his wet hair. Holding him tight. The water washes everything away, down the drain, gone, and we're clean and breathing hard.
"Are you okay?" I ask softly. I will always ask.
He lifts his head. Eyes bright, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen, looking beautifully wrecked. "More than okay. I didn't know... I didn't know my body could feel like this. Like it's mine."
I pull him closer, arms locking around him. "It's yours. Always. Nothing happens unless you want it. You understand?"
He presses his face to my neck. "I know. I've known since that first night."
The water keeps falling, warm and steady, like it can wash away everything that came before. And maybe, just maybe, it can.
I turn off the shower with one hand, the other still wrapped protectively around Stormy's waist. The sudden quiet is almost startling. Just our breathing now, heavy and slowing, and the soft drip from the showerhead. Steam clings to the tiles, to our skin, making everything feel close and cocooned.
He doesn't move away. Neither do I. His arms stay looped around my middle, face still tucked against the center of my chest like he's listening to my heartbeat steady itself.
I can feel the last fine tremors in his thighs, the way his fingers flex and relax against my back in little unconscious waves, like he's reminding himself I'm real.
I reach for the towel hanging on the hook just outside the stall. I drape it over his shoulders first, pulling the edges around him so it covers his back and chest. He lets out a small, surprised breath when the terrycloth settles against his wet skin.
"Come here," I murmur, guiding him out of the stall with a hand low on his spine.
The bathroom floor is cool under our feet. I grab the second towel for myself but don't bother wrapping it yet. Instead, I focus on him. I blot gently at his hair, careful not to rub too hard, then down his neck, across his shoulders.
When I reach the faint yellow bruises along his ribs I slow even more, letting the towel glide over them like I'm touching something fragile and precious. He watches my hands the whole time, eyes soft and searching.
"You don't have to—" he starts.
"I want to," I say simply. "Let me take care of you. I like taking care of you. I really do. Humor me."
He doesn't argue. He leans into the touch instead, eyes fluttering half-closed when I dry the line of his sternum, the soft skin below his navel. I'm thorough but gentle, never lingering too long in one place.
Every pass of the towel is a reminder. I see you. All of you. And I'm still here.
When he's mostly dry, I wrap the towel around his waist, tucking it secure at his hip. Only then do I swipe the second towel quickly over myself, just enough to stop dripping. I don't care about being perfectly dry. I care about getting him warm and held.
I scoop him up again, the same way I carried him in here. His arms come around my neck without hesitation, legs wrapping loosely around my waist. He's lighter than he should be, still, but he feels steadier against me, less like something that might shatter if I breathe wrong.
I carry him back to the bedroom. The sheets are still rumpled from earlier. I set him down gently in the center, then climb in beside him and pull the top sheet over both of us. No need for more than that. The room is warm, our skin still flushed.
He immediately curls into me, head finding the hollow under my jaw, one leg sliding between mine. I wrap both arms around him, one hand splayed wide across his back, the other cradling the nape of his neck. My thumb strokes slow, mindless circles at the base of his skull.
For a long moment we just breathe together. In, out. His exhales warm against my throat. Mine ruffle his damp hair.
"You still with me?" I ask quietly.
He nods against my chest. "Yeah. Just… floating a little."
"Good float or bad float?"
"Good float." His fingers trace the edge of my shoulder blade. "Really good. Like my whole body's humming, but quiet. Safe."
I press my lips to the top of his head. "That's exactly where I want you."
"I didn't think I could come like that. Not… not with someone else's hand. Not without—" He stops, swallows. "Not without it feeling like something was being taken from me."
My heart twists, but I keep my voice steady. "It wasn't taken. You gave it. And I'm so honored you trusted me with it."
He lifts his head enough to meet my eyes. His are still glassy, pupils wide, but clear. "I want to do it again. Not right now, but… soon. I want to learn what else feels good. With you."
Heat blooms under my ribs, tender and fierce at once. "Whenever you're ready. No rush. We've got time."
He settles back down, cheek over my heart. "Will you stay with me like this for a little while? Just holding me?"
"Try getting rid of me," I say, tightening my arms a fraction. "I'm not moving until you tell me to."
His laugh is small, sleepy, more air than sound. "Good. Because I'm not telling you to. I like being held in your arms. I thought I would like it and I do. I heard your heartbeat today. When I put my head on your chest. I heard it and it was the safest sound in the world."
I press my mouth to the top of his head and breathe him in.
"It beats for you," I say, because it's true and because I'm done holding things back.
"Every beat. Every single one. Also, it beats significantly faster when you touch me, which is a fact my doctor would probably want to know about but I'm choosing not to tell him because he'll ruin it with medical advice. "
I keep stroking his back. Long, slow passes from shoulder to lower spine, feeling the subtle knobs of his vertebrae, the way his muscles loosen under my palm. His breathing deepens, evens out. Not asleep yet, but drifting, safe in that soft space between awake and gone.
I kiss his forehead, barely a brush of lips. "You're safe," I whisper, more to myself than him, though I know he hears it. "You're safe, and you're wanted, Stormy, and you're mine. If you want to be."
His fingers curl against my chest. "I do," he murmurs. "I want to be yours. So much."
The words settle into me like warm water, filling every cracked place. I hold him tighter, close my eyes, and let the quiet wrap around us both.
We stay like that for a long time—skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat—until his breathing finally tips into the slow, even rhythm of someone who trusts enough to rest completely.
And I don't move an inch.