Kyle #2
He lets out a shaky breath when my cock springs out, thick and painfully hard from over two weeks of neglect, and I’m grateful for the shower spray for washing away the precum that’s leaking from the tip.
The arousal building in my balls has a sharp, burning edge to it, and when Max lets the washcloth fall to the floor with a wet slap, it almost feels like my stomach is cramping; the anticipation is so strong.
His hand is slick with soap when he finally makes contact with the hot, bare flesh of my cock, and the intensity of it is enough to make me whimper. He still has a hand on my waist, and his grip tightens, holding me still as my legs go weak.
“Ah—” I hiss as he circles his fist around my shaft, sliding all the way down to my balls in one smooth movement. When he comes back up and his palm smooths over my sensitive crown, my hips kick forward of their own volition, heat pulsing along my length.
Another rough noise leaves my throat, a growl rumbling from my chest instinctively as my orgasm builds startlingly fast. The sensation of his hand on me is overwhelming; the contrast of his rough skin slicked by the warm lather, every movement so agonizingly slow and careful, like he’s still keeping up the pretense of washing me. Thoroughly.
I try to find purchase on his upper arm with my left hand, but my sprained wrist won’t let me, slipping when I try to dig my fingers into his skin.
“Careful,” he murmurs, holding me steady, his hand still working me. “I’ve got you.”
Max shifts slightly in front of me, and for the first time I notice the bulge in his own boxers.
It was obscured by the dark fabric, but there’s no mistaking the rigid outline of him straining against the elastic when he moves, and I’m suddenly all too aware of the arousal bleeding through both of our scents, heady and powerful even in the steamy shower cubicle.
And even though Max hasn’t changed his slow, slippery pace, even though he’s not flicking his wrist or squeezing my balls or talking dirty in my ear like the omegas I usually sleep with would do, I’m suddenly right there.
On the edge with nowhere to go but over, the pleasure tightening around my lungs and burning a hole in my gut.
“Fuck, Max—” I pant, trying to warn him, but if he understands what’s about to happen, it doesn’t deter him. He just keeps sliding his hand along my shaft as my balls draw up and my cock stiffens, moving so close that I can feel his breath on my neck, his fingertips digging welts into my waist.
I let go. It’s not a snap, or an explosion—it’s a slow tidal wave, the pleasure building and cresting until I can’t catch my breath, before it crashes over me in intense, throbbing waves that ripple all the way down to my toes.
My vision blurs, my mouth falling open as I spill hot and hard over his fist, my release splashing onto his thigh before the shower spray washes it away.
I lean back weakly against the shower wall, shivering through the aftershocks as Max releases me and rinses off his hand.
He readjusts himself in his boxers while he’s turned away, before taking the showerhead down from its holder and washing the suds off both of us, carefully avoiding my broken arm.
He turns the water off, the flow thinning until the only sound in the enclosed cubicle is the drip-drip-drip from the showerhead, and our heavy breathing.
“Holy shit,” I mutter, letting my head tip back. “That was…”
I shake my head, and Max stares at me like he’s kind of terrified of what I might say.
“That was a really fucking great shower,” I finish.
Max laughs, relief washing over his features as he steps out of the shower first, grabbing a towel from the rack and wrapping it loosely around his waist. I notice a red flush creeping up the back of his neck. “You’re an idiot,” he says. “You’re lucky I’m an expert showerer.”
“That’s not a thing, asshole.”
“It is, and I am. Here, lean against me when you step out,” he orders. “Don’t go breaking a leg after all that.”
I let him help me out, and then I let him dry me off, wicking the water from my legs and chest, every touch sending a tiny spark across my skin, which I put down to the after-effects of the mind-altering orgasm I had a couple of minutes ago.
He uses a small towel to aggressively dry off his own short hair before doing the same to mine, smoothing down the slightly overgrown waves when he’s finished, his fingers warm on the tips of my ears.
I look at him in the fogged-up mirror, expecting to feel strange. But I don’t. He’s still Max. I’m still me. He catches me looking and gives me a slightly bashful grin as he picks up my sweatpants, which he placed, neatly folded, on the countertop pre-shower.
“You wanna watch a movie?” I say as he helps me step into my sweats, and the smile he gives me when he looks up is almost enough to squash the lingering awkwardness I constantly feel at needing him to help me dress. And shower. And jerk off. “Maybe that new Tarantino one?”
“You know I think Tarantino is overrated.”
“Sure. I also know you’ll still watch every one of his movies multiple times. I think you enjoy complaining about them.”
“I think you enjoy my commentary,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “I enjoy watching Uma Thurman kick ass in a skin-tight suit.”
Max raises an eyebrow at me. “Overcompensating, much?”
“Jesus Christ,” I mumble, chuckling at how blatantly transparent that was, even to my own ears. “Okay, I’m putting it on.”
“Don’t, I’ll do it—”
“I’ll do it with my feet!” I shout, already halfway out of the bathroom.
I can practically hear Max’s disapproving head shake as I walk into the living room, just as clearly as I can still feel the ghost of his fingers on my skin.