28. Phoenix #2
This is nothing like the way I used to survive touch. Nothing like the cold compliance, the bartered affection, the numb acceptance. This is warm skin and quiet permission. No one’s asking me to give anything. He’s just... letting me care for him. Letting me mean it.
It’s probably nothing compared to the thousand-dollar massages he’s used to, but those were out of obligation. I’m not obligated to do a damn thing.
“Can I ask you something else?” Storm says, and the quietness of his voice startles me a little.
“Of course. ”
“Can I kiss you?” His voice is quieter now. Less like a Titan, more like a boy asking for something no one’s ever given him. “Not because of the contract. Not because you have to let me. Just because… you want to.”
I blink once. Then again. The steam around us feels suddenly thicker. My heart stutters, not from fear but from something that might be worse.
I lean in and press my lips to his—gentle, unguarded. His mouth lingers like he doesn’t want to take anything, just feel what it’s like to be wanted.
“Let me touch you,” he asks.
“No.”
The word hangs there like it shouldn't belong between us, sharp and unbending. But he doesn't flinch at my rejection—he recoils from it, like he’s been burned. Water ripples between us as he shifts back. I grab his wrist, not to soothe him, but to anchor us both.
“Let me take care of you ,” I say, pulling him back down into the water.
I settle him again into the tub while I move up, sitting on the edge. His arms hook over my legs, his head resting against my breasts. I use more of the body wash as massage oil, rubbing it into his shoulders, over his pecs, and down to his abs.
His cock is rock hard, standing straight up, just peeking out of the water.
“Do you want me to touch you?” I whisper in his ear, brushing a kiss across his cheek.
“Yes,” he moans.
I reach down, pressing my hand into his abs until I reach his cock. I wrap my fingers around the base and massage it with a smooth, tight grip.
“Just like that,” he groans, and I lean over to get a better angle.
His eyes slide closed as I work his shaft, squeezing tighter at the base, keeping the pressure firm and steady.
“Angel, please…” Storm moans.
“What do you need, baby?” I whisper.
“You,” he pants. “I need you.”
Without letting go of him, I slip into the water next to him, still stroking him, slow and steady. I watch the pleasure painting his features. Like this, he doesn’t look like the crazed man with a knife. He doesn’t look like a killer who lost control.
He looks like a man who just needed to be touched.
“Please,” he begs, wrapping one arm around me and pulling me closer.
I shift so I’m lying on top of him again, chest pressed to his, my hand still wrapped around him.
“Let me feel you. Let me touch you, too. You need?—”
“No,” I interrupt gently. “This isn’t about me.
This is about you. Let me make you feel good without getting anything in return.
You told me how people use you—how no one ever cares for you unless they want something.
I’m telling you right now, Storm… I’m here for you because I want to be.
I’m not getting anything out of this, other than the chance to care for you. ”
He seals his lips over mine in a deep, firm kiss, his tongue sliding between my teeth as I close my eyes and lose myself in him. The only thing on my mind—other than his mouth—is keeping my movements steady .
When he breaks the kiss, his back arches and his lips part in a silent moan as he comes for me, his release shooting across my breasts.
I keep stroking him through it, letting him ride out wave after wave of pleasure. I watch as the tension in his shoulders and arms seizes up… and then finally lets go. He sinks into a relaxed state I don’t think I’ve ever seen on him before.
When he opens his eyes, he looks drowsy. His thumb traces the curve of my breast, collecting a bit of his release and rubbing it into my nipple.
Without thinking, I grab his wrist, bring his thumb to my mouth, and lick it clean. He hooks that same thumb under my jaw, pulling my mouth back to his for a filthy, erotic kiss.
“That was for me,” he says, voice low, thick with something primal.
“But next time? I’m not just going to touch you.
I’m going to strip away everything anyone’s ever forced you to be.
Every bruise, every mask, every inch of armor.
I’ll carve the damage out with my hands and rebuild you from the ashes. In my image. As mine.”
He kisses me again before grabbing the loofah, still slick with soap, and scrubs me clean .
By the time we get out, the water’s gone icy. He pulls a gray robe from his closet—the fabric soft and thick, like summer storms—and wraps me in it. It’s the softest thing I’ve ever felt. He throws on a matching robe, then takes a deep breath.
“Are you ready to face the others?” he asks, brushing a wet lock of hair from my face.
“No,” I answer honestly. “But we have to.”
He gives me one more sweet kiss—interrupted by Con banging on the door.
“Fuck off! We’ll be out in a minute,” Storm yells.
“The cops are here. They want a statement.”
Fuck.