Chapter 8 #3
I push his knees up to his chest so that I can reach his mouth.
My hips pound into him over and over and over again, relishing in his tight hole that no one else has been inside except for me.
The only sounds in my room are the sounds of flesh slapping together, Kai's pleas, and my heart hammering in my skull.
“My whore loves it rough, huh?”
Kai's eyes are closed tight as he thrashes against the ropes. “Yes, Ash. Yes! Yes! Yes!”
My neighbors are for sure going to leave me a note. I shove my tongue into his mouth to shut him up. He sucks on it, trying to pull at the ropes so hard I think he might actually hurt himself. I pin his wrists down with one hand.
He groans against my mouth as I feel something hot and wet spray over my chest. Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit!
I come hard inside of him, trying to push deeper with every pulse.
Shit, I came too fast. I was so distracted by Kai's little show that I forgot to keep myself contained long enough to last.
No, it's probably good we didn't go too long for his sake.
Kai kisses me messily, fully entranced by his double orgasm. When I pull away, his lips are swollen, and his eyes are unfocused. My heart quivers in my chest.
Damn it.
I pull off of him, my cock slipping out. Kai groans in protest sleepily. His chest rises and falls quickly, his legs slumping to the side.
My hands go up and untie the knots holding him down. I rub each wrist gently as they come undone.
“You don't need to do that,” Kai says.
“Shut up. Yes, I do.” I kiss the wrist I have in my hand before grabbing a bottle of water from my nightstand. “Sit up for me.”
Kai sits up and reluctantly takes the water I shoved into his hands.
“I don't need all this.”
“Drink.”
“Ash.”
“Do not argue with me, Hayes.”
He drinks.
I feel absurdly victorious. The silence stretches comfortably between us for a minute.
Then Kai tries again.
“We don't have to do this. I'm really okay.”
The comment finally makes me look up. “Do what?”
“The aftercare thing.” His fingers tighten around the water bottle. “I'm okay.”
The statement comes out too quickly. Too practiced. Like he's been saying it for years.
I stare at him.
Normally, I'd push.
Tonight I'm too tired.
Instead, I rake a hand through my hair and sigh. “For the record, this isn't about you.”
Kai blinks, “What?”
I point toward myself. “It's for me.”
The confusion on his face is immediate.
I almost laugh. “You think I enjoy spending the rest of my night wondering if you're alright?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Then opens it again. Nothing comes out.
“Exactly.” I stand. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“The shower.”
Kai immediately looks horrified. Not by the shower. By the idea of being fussed over. Which is honestly becoming ridiculous.
“Ash—”
“Don't.”
He sighs dramatically.
I ignore him.
A few minutes later, we're standing beneath hot water. The apartment is quiet except for the steady sound of the shower.
Kai still looks vaguely suspicious, like he thinks this entire situation might be a trick.
I squirt shampoo into my hands and massage it into his scalp. He hums a small, satisfied noise.
The smile finally appears.
Small.
Sleepy.
Real.
I spend the next few minutes listening to him complain about my shampoo smelling expensive. Then he complains about my conditioner. Then my soap.
Apparently, everything I own is offensive.
It's oddly entertaining.
By the time we're finished, some of the tension has left his shoulders.
Not all of it.
Just enough. Enough that he doesn't immediately pull away every time I brush past him. Enough that he finally stops insisting he's fine.
I'll take it.
Back in the bedroom, I hand him a clean T-shirt and his underwear. The shirt hangs off him.
The sleeves are too long. The collar slips slightly toward one shoulder.
The effect is unfair.
Kai pulls it down self-consciously. “What?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
“Ash.”
I grin. “You're cute.”
His face immediately turns red. Outstanding.
The man is a professional athlete who is regularly hit by grown men traveling at 20 miles an hour. Yet somehow, a compliment is enough to destroy him.
I enjoy it immensely.
“Shut up.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“Definitely not.”
The blush gets worse.
I decide not to push my luck, I pull off the ruined top sheet and grab a spare blanket from my closet.
I point toward the bed. “Get in.”
Kai narrows his eyes, then obeys.
I head toward the kitchen before he can change his mind. The fridge contains exactly what I expected.
Leftover takeout.
Three sports drinks.
Questionable leftovers.
A single lemon.
I grab two bottles of Gatorade and head back.
When I step into the bedroom, I stop. Kai is sitting in the middle of my California king bed.
His hair is still damp from the shower. My shirt hangs loosely from his frame.
The sight hits me harder than expected. I immediately decide not to think about that.
Instead, I toss him a bottle.
Kai catches it. “Thanks.”
I turn on the television. The first thing I find is an old sitcom rerun from the nineties. Perfect. No thinking required. No emotional growth. Just bad jokes and a laugh track.
I climb into bed beside him. Kai immediately stiffens.
I wrap an arm around his waist and pull him closer. The resistance lasts approximately three seconds.
“Ash.”
“Hm?” I say groggily.
“I really don't need—”
I look down at him. “Finish that sentence.”
Kai wisely chooses not to.
I nod. “Good boy.”
The sitcom continues playing in the background. Somebody says something ridiculous. The audience laughs. Neither of us is paying attention.
Kai settles a little more with every passing minute. The tension slowly leaves his body. His breathing evens out. Eventually, his head ends up resting against my shoulder.
I don't point it out.
He doesn't either.
The arrangement happens.
A few minutes later, he starts speaking again. “I still think you're being dramatic.”
“I'm taking you home.”
Kai immediately grabs my arm. “No.”
The answer comes so fast that I bark out a laugh.
He glares.
I grin.
The reaction is worth it. For the first time all evening, Kai doesn't try to argue about being cared for.
He settles back down. The sitcom keeps playing.
The room grows quieter. And somewhere in the middle of a terrible joke from thirty years ago, I realize neither of us has said a word in almost fifteen minutes.
Kai is half asleep. Curled against my side. Wearing my shirt. Occupying my bed like he belongs there.
The realization should probably concern me.
Instead, I pull the blanket higher over both of us and leave the television on.
Tomorrow can figure itself out.
Tonight, he's staying right here.