5. Steam and Grip
STEAM AND GRIP
Istepped under the spray first, the water slamming hot against my shoulders and carving channels through the sweat and blood still drying on my skin.
The gym had emptied out after our last round, Coach long gone with a clipped reminder about tomorrow's tape review.
Just the two of us left in the tiled cavern, steam curling thick enough to blur the edges of the stalls.
My thigh throbbed where Diego had driven his knee in during the final scramble, a deep bruise already blooming purple under the surface.
I braced a forearm on the slick wall and let the heat pound down my back, eyes closed against the sting.
Metal scraped behind me. Bare feet on wet tile.
I didn't turn. The second showerhead hissed to life two stalls over, but the sound shifted closer.
Water pressure changed, droplets hitting skin that wasn't mine.
Then his body cut through the mist, solid and uninvited, stepping directly under my spray until the cascade split around his shoulders and ran down the cut lines of his abs.
"Wrong stall," I said, my voice flat even as my pulse jumped.
Diego didn't answer right away. Water sheeted over his chest, tracing the fresh red welts my elbows had painted across his ribs.
His hair clung dark to his forehead, droplets clinging to his lashes.
That smirk pulled at one corner of his mouth, the scar above his brow catching the light like a warning.
He crowded in without touching, close enough that the heat rolling off him mixed with the steam and made the air feel heavier in my lungs.
"Demo time, Blackburn. You keep leaving that elbow high when you post." His hand came up slow, calluses rough as he gripped my wrist and guided my arm back into a defensive angle against the tile. "Like this. See, straight boy? Elbow stays tight or I slide right in."
The words landed low, almost against my ear, and my cock twitched hard at the double meaning.
His fingers stayed wrapped around my wrist, thumb pressing into the pulse point there while he adjusted my posture with his other hand on my shoulder.
The hold forced my back to arch slightly, hips tilting forward under the spray.
Water sluiced between us now, hot and relentless, and I felt the brush of his thigh against mine, muscle dense and unyielding.
I should have shoved him off. Instead my body locked up, skin prickling where his chest nearly grazed my arm.
The steam carried his scent stronger now, soap and salt and that deeper musk that always clung to him after we rolled.
My balls drew tight, a slow ache building at the base of my shaft as blood rushed south.
Fuck. Not here. With him standing this close, demonstrating a goddamn hold like it was nothing while my dick started to fill against my will.
Diego's gaze dropped, dark eyes narrowing with that intense focus he brought to every cage exchange.
The smirk deepened. He didn't pull back.
His hand slid from my wrist down my forearm, deliberate, until his palm flattened against my ribs.
"You're breathing wrong too. Too shallow. Lets me exploit the gap every time."
His fingers spread wider, mapping the ridges there, and my cock surged fully hard, thick and obvious now as it rose against my stomach.
The water made everything slick, beads racing down my length and dripping from the head.
Shame burned hot up my neck, but it tangled with a sharper hunger that made my hips shift forward an inch before I caught myself.
Diego noticed. Of course he did. His breath ghosted warm across my collarbone, and then his hand moved lower, wrapping around my cock without hesitation.
The grip was firm, sure, calluses dragging along sensitive skin as he gave one slow stroke from base to tip.
Pleasure spiked sharp through my groin, ripping a grunt from my throat that echoed off the tiles.
"Shit," I managed, the word rough and broken.
He didn't speak again. Just worked me with that focused intensity, thumb swiping over the head on every upstroke to spread the precome that leaked steady now.
The steam wrapped around us like a curtain, isolating the wet sounds of his fist pumping my shaft, the slap of skin on wet skin barely audible under the dual sprays.
My knees wanted to buckle. I planted both hands on the wall instead, head dropping forward as his rhythm built, steady and relentless.
Diego's own cock stood rigid beside mine, thick and veined, the head flushed dark.
I stared at it through the water, unable to look away, the sight sending another pulse through my length where he held me.
My hips rolled into his grip on instinct, chasing the friction, and he tightened his fingers in response.
The pressure coiled tighter at the base of my spine, balls aching with every tug.
I reached for him without thinking, palm closing around his girth.
He was hot, heavy, the skin velvet over steel.
Diego's hips jerked once, a low exhale escaping him, but he didn't stop stroking me.
We fell into it together then, hands moving in rough tandem, water cascading over our knuckles and making everything slippery and obscene.
His thumb pressed into the underside of my cock on a downstroke, right where it felt best, and my vision blurred at the edges.
No words passed between us. Just the harsh rasp of our breathing, the wet rhythm of fists working slick flesh, the occasional grunt that neither of us could hold back.
His free hand braced on the tile near my head, caging me in without touching, while mine twisted on his length, learning the spots that made his thighs flex and his abs contract.
The ache built fast, overwhelming, every nerve ending screaming under the hot spray.
My orgasm hit first, sudden and brutal. Come spurted across his fingers and onto the wet tile, thick ropes mixing with the water and swirling down the drain.
I bit back a groan, teeth sinking into my lower lip until I tasted copper, body shuddering through each pulse as he milked me through it.
The release left my legs shaky, chest heaving like I'd taken a body shot.
Diego followed seconds later. His cock throbbed in my grip, swelling thicker before he spilled hot over my knuckles, stripes of white painting my wrist before the shower washed it clean.
His hips snapped forward once, twice, chasing the last of it, then stilled.
We stood there under the spray, hands still wrapped around each other, water pounding down on bruised skin and spent cocks.
Then he let go. Stepped back. The space between us felt colder than it should have, even with the steam still thick.
He turned without a word, rinsing off under his own showerhead like nothing had happened.
I did the same, back to him now, the silence heavier than any taunt he'd thrown in the cage.
My thigh pulsed in time with my slowing heartbeat.
The water started to run lukewarm, but I stayed under it until my skin pruned and the evidence was long gone.
I shut off the spray first. Grabbed my towel from the hook and wrapped it low around my hips without looking at him. The locker room beyond felt too quiet as I dressed in silence, the fabric of my sweats dragging rough over still-sensitive skin. Diego stayed in the showers. I didn't wait.
The drive back to my apartment blurred past streetlights and empty intersections.
My truck rumbled beneath me, the seat vibrating against my ass in a way that kept the shower replaying behind my eyes.
I kept both hands on the wheel, knuckles pale, but the ache in my palms wouldn't fade.
The taste of steam and salt lingered at the back of my throat no matter how many times I swallowed.
My place sat dark when I pulled up, the single bulb over the door buzzing faintly.
I killed the headlights but sat there a long minute, engine ticking as it cooled.
The bruise on my thigh throbbed harder now, a reminder of every second he'd pinned me earlier.
Of how easily that pin had shifted into something else under the water.
Inside, I dropped my bag by the door and stripped down to nothing, the sheets cool when I stretched out on the bed.
Sleep should have claimed me fast after the brutal session and the release that followed.
It didn't. I stared at the ceiling cracks I knew by heart, body still buzzing, cock half-interested again at the phantom grip of his hand.
The apartment felt too empty, too loud with the absence of any other sound but my own breathing.
I rolled onto my side, facing the wall, but the images wouldn't quit.
His smirk in the steam. The way his fist had worked me like he already knew exactly what I needed.
The silence after, thick and final. My eyes stayed open, burning, while the clock on the nightstand clicked past midnight and kept going.