Chapter 33
BECK
I lose the thread of whatever Brody’s saying somewhere between “The thing about Nationals is,” and the way his foot drifts up the back of my thigh.
We’re stretched out in the giant hotel tub, him on one side, me on the other. The tub is big enough for us to fully stretch our legs, but my knees are bent and braced against the sides, because straightening them would mean shifting my hips, and shifting my hips would mean…
A groan slowly leaks out of me as Brody’s toes slide along the crease where my ass meets the floor of the tub. Then higher. Right over the toy he put inside me what feels like twelve hours ago.
I bite the inside of my cheek and pretend I’m composed.
I am most definitely not composed.
The air is heavy and damp, scented with vanilla and sandalwood. Steam fogs the glass shower door and the big mirror over the vanity. It could be coming from the hot water, or my heavy panting as I try to keep myself from combusting.
Brody looks obscene in the soft bathroom light. His broad chest gleaming, blond hair damp and curling in the humidity. There’s a couple days’ worth of stubble shadowing his jaw that I want to drag my tongue over. I want to feel that stubble on my throat. On my thighs. On my everything.
Instead, I’m sitting here clutching the sides of the tub like it’s a lifeboat while my boyfriend pretends to talk about sports logistics and casually uses his foot to torture me.
My breath stutters every time he glances over or pushes on the plug.
The pressure is maddening. It’s too much and not enough at the same time.
Every tease, every tiny push makes my body clench down around it, makes my cock twitch where it’s bobbing in the water.
A steady stream of pre-cum swirls from the tip.
“Beck.”
I blink at him, trying to look normal and definitely failing. “What?”
He raises one eyebrow slowly. “Are you listening?”
“Absolutely not,” I say honestly. “I haven’t heard a single word you’ve said since you put this thing inside me and stopped touching me.”
Something wicked sparks in his eyes. His mouth curves. Then he presses his toes deliberately against the flared base again.
A strangled sound rips out of me. I slap a hand over my mouth too late.
“Please,” I manage, my voice rough. “Stop torturing me.”
His grin is sinful. He settles his foot more firmly between my legs, just resting there, like that isn’t the worst possible place for him to be. The ball of his foot presses against my balls just firmly enough to cross the line between pressure and pain. A heavy breath hisses out of me.
“Brody. Please,” I groan. “I need you. I needed you before, but now I’m pretty sure I’m dying.”
It’s only a half-exaggeration.
We’ve fooled around this week, sure. Hands under blankets, sloppy kisses stolen in the dark of his old bedroom, making out on his childhood couch while the TV hummed in the background and we tried to pretend we weren’t both thinking about his mom walking in.
But there’s only so much you can do in a tiny house with thin walls and people coming and going.
Christmas Day was the only chance we had to really be together. To have him inside me. It had been rushed and emotional, and over faster than either of us wanted. It was my fault, because apparently my body decided that feeling safe and loved is a kink now and gave up the ghost almost immediately.
Now I’m stretched and full and simmering, and he’s over there playing footsie like I’m not one tickle away from climbing across this tub and humping whatever limb I can reach like an animal in heat.
He nudges the plug again, and my patience snaps.
Fine. If he won’t stop being a sadistic tease, I’ll just have to redirect his attention.
I shift forward carefully, trying not to slosh too much water over the sides. My thighs are shaking. The movement makes the plug settle differently, and it feels weird. I have to pause and breathe through it, my fingers digging into the edge of the tub.
Brody’s eyes track every inch, his playful smirk softening into something hungrier.
I turn onto my knees between his feet and crawl up the slick porcelain, water lapping at my sides. When I reach him, I swing a leg over and sink down onto his lap, straddling him.
His hands fly to my hips automatically, steadying me.
“You good?” he asks, his voice suddenly serious.
“Define good,” I mutter, and lean in to kiss him.
The second our mouths meet, the tight coil in my chest loosens.
He hums into it, low and pleased, letting me take my time.
I kiss him like I’ve been wanting to all week.
Slow and deep and possessive, licking into his mouth, tasting mint and lust and whatever bubble bath was sitting on the edge of the tub when I prepared the water.
His fingers flex on my hips as I rock forward, sliding my cock along the wet plane of his stomach. The angle pushes the plug just right, and I moan into his mouth, my entire body shivering.
“I could come like this,” I gasp against his lips. “But I want—”
He cuts me off with a low noise, one hand roaming down to palm my ass, thumb brushing the stem of the toy. My vision whites out for a second.
“What do you want, baby?” he murmurs, teasing. “Use your words.”
Right. Words. Those things.
“I want…” My throat works. His eyes are locked on mine, bright and intense, and it feels stupidly like I’m about to jump off a cliff. “I want you to come inside me.”
The change in him is immediate. It’s like I flipped a switch. His pupils blow wide, the playful edge dropping clean off his face.
“Are you serious?” he asks, his voice rough.
I nod, damp hair flopping over one eye. “Yes. I want it. I want your cum inside me. Now, please.”
He laughs once, breathless. Then he moves.
One second I’m straddling him in the water, the next he’s standing, and I’m sliding off his thighs. He hauls me to my feet, then bends low like he’s going to tackle me.
Bathwater sloshes everywhere, spilling over the sides and splashing across the tile floor as he hauls me up in a fireman’s carry. I yelp his name, holding on for dear life as he steps out of the tub and walks across the floor to the bed.
A bolt of electricity shoots straight up my spine with every step, the plug jostling inside me and my cock trapped against his shoulder. He leaves a trail of water all the way to the bed and tosses me down on the mattress.
He crawls over me, bracketing my head with his arms, water dripping from his hair onto my forehead. His stubble scrapes my jaw as he noses along my cheek to kiss just below my ear, and I arch up into him helplessly.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs against my throat, turning my head towards the ornate floor-length mirror next to the bed. “Look at you.”
“No,” I mutter, because if I look at myself right now—flushed, needy, and wrecked—I might actually combust.
He laughs softly. “Yes,” he counters. One broad palm slides up my chest, fingers splaying over my racing heart. His thumb brushes my collarbone, then drifts higher, curling around my throat with the lightest pressure.
Every atom in my body combusts.
He kisses me again, slowly and all-consuming. As his mouth moves over mine, his other hand trails down my side, over the curve of my hip, finally slipping around to gently ease the toy free. I gasp into him, the sudden empty ache making me clutch at his shoulders.
“It’s okay,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”
And he does.
The rest blurs into sensation. The drag of his stubble along my neck and chest as he kisses down, leaving warm, wet trails in his wake. The way his hands are everywhere all at once, grounding and worshiping and teasing, taking his time with me because for once, we have all the time in the world.
When he finally pushes into me, slow and careful, one hand cradling the back of my head, the world narrows to the heat of him and the way my body yields around him, already open and wanting. I cling to him, breathing harshly against his shoulder, and he goes still.
“Okay?” he asks, voice hoarse.
I nod, fingers digging into his back. “More,” I choke out. “Please.”
He groans and obliges, moving in steady, shallow rolls of his hips that make my toes curl.
There’s nothing rushed about it. No frantic edge, no panic.
Just us, fitting together, learning each other all over again in this room that feels a little bit like a bubble of universe that’s just for us.
It’s hot and slow and serious and playful and everything all at once.
At some point he pulls me up so I’m upright on my knees and enters me from behind. As he rolls his hips, keeping one hand on my hip to steady me, the other comes around to hold my throat.
“Look,” he tries again. This time, it’s impossible not to.
Our bodies glisten with water and sweat, reflecting the bright streaks of pink and orange that paint the sky outside the wide-open windows.
Brody kisses down the back of my neck and lightly scrapes his teeth along the back of my shoulder. Then he slowly bends me forward, brushing his hand down my spine and making my back arch just right. My breath catches.
“Right there,” he says on a breathy groan as my spine tingles. “Don’t stop looking,” he says, and our eyes meet in the mirror.
Brody looks fucking dangerous. Holding me just the way he wants me, rolling his hips with each stroke, abs clenching, muscles rippling. He bites his full lip and tells me what a good girl I am for him, how I feel so good, so hot and tight and perfect.
“I can’t believe I get to come inside you,” he groans. “You’re going to have traces of me inside you, leaking out of you. I’m going to mark you from the inside, and you’re going to be mine.”
My body clenches, and he feels it. He keeps me there, just like that, fucking into me with long, firm strokes that light up every nerve in my body. I choke out his name, eyes glued to his in the mirror, and come undone.