7. Chapter 7 #2
He begins to work his finger, sliding it in and out with a rhythmic, digging motion. He's searching, his eyes fixed on mine, watching the way my expression fractures. Then, he finds it.
He hooks his finger, pressing upward against the internal swell of my prostate.
"OH!" The groan escapes me before I can catch it - a loud, uninhibited sound that bounces off the tiled walls. It’s a deep, guttural vibration of pure, unadulterated pleasure that makes my whole body arch.
The sensation is electric, a jolt of lightning that starts in my core and explodes behind my eyes. My hips lunge forward, seeking more of that pressure, more of that heavy, rhythmic digging.
Suddenly, the heavy metal door to the locker room creaks. The sound of heavy, tired footsteps echoes on the floor outside - the unmistakable rhythm of one of the guys from the crew, probably woken by my moaning.
"Hey, is someone in there?" a sleepy, gravelly voice calls out, just a few feet away. It sounds like Martin, the Clipboard Guy.
Panic flares in my chest, hotter than the fire we just fought. My heart hammers against my ribs. I can feel Chase's finger still buried deep inside me, pressing firmly against that sweet, sensitive spot, keeping me anchored to the sensation even as the risk threatens to break me.
"Shhh!" I hiss, the word a desperate, whispered command. I lunge forward, grabbing Chase’s shoulder and pulling him closer into the spray, trying to hide his moving head between my thighs. "Quiet... please..."
I hold my breath, my eyes wide and searching the steam, listening to the footsteps linger. If we got found out… I try to list through how this would damage both mine and Chase’s career, all whilst Chase teases by taking me deeper into his throat.
Every muscle in my body is taut, caught between the overwhelming pleasure of Chase's finger working inside me or mouth around me and the terrifying possibility of being caught mid-act in our own station.
"Just... taking a shower," I croak out, my voice trembling more than the water hitting the floor. "Alone, man. Just me."
The footsteps pause right outside the curtain. The heavy slap of bare feet on tile is agonizingly close.
Chase doesn't help. Instead, he lets out a tiny, muffled huff of a laugh against my thigh, and then - God, he adds a second finger. He pushes it deep into my heat, curling it upward with a sudden, sharp pressure that makes my vision swim.
It sends me over the edge, and I start spilling into Chase’s mouth. My cock is deep in Chase’s throat, his fingers pushing against my prostate, and I have to bite my lip so hard it bleeds.
"You sound a little breathless there, Jason," Martin calls back. He's standing right on the other side of the plastic curtain. "Everything okay? You didn't catch a second dose of smoke in your lungs, did you?"
"Fine!" I snap, a bit too loudly as I continue to spill into Chase’s throat. The sound echoes off the tiles like a gunshot. "Just... the water is hot. Really hot."
The sound of a zipper follows, then the unmistakable, rhythmic splashing of someone urinating into a trough.
It’s so close we could reach through the curtain and touch him.
My heart is a frantic drum in my ears. My cock continues to pulse, each daring me to groan with pleasure.
Every time Clipboard Guy’s stream splashes, Chase uses it as a cover to swirl his fingers inside me, stretching me, digging into that prostate spot until my thighs are shaking uncontrollably.
"Good," Clipboard Guy grunts, the sound of his piss slowing down. "Don't stay in there too long, man. You'll wrinkle."
A final, heavy splash, and then the footsteps begin to retreat toward the bunks.
The second the door swings shut, the tension snaps. The last of my pulses erupt into Chases’s mouth, and his fingers are removed from my ass with a slurp.
"He's gone," I whisper, my voice thick. "I nearly gave the game away."
Chase laughs quietly and stands up.
We have to stay quiet. That is the knife-edge of it, the thing that makes my pulse roar – the captain behind a door down the hall, the other crew in their bunks, the constant slick risk of it.
Every sound gets swallowed by the water.
When I gasp, he covers my mouth with his and drinks it down.
When he groans low in his chest I feel it more than hear it, my hand flat against his sternum.
Then I want to give him something. I want to be the one who takes him apart for once.
Now it’s my turn. My heart is racing, but there’s a new kind of determination in my chest. I sink down to my knees on the wet floor, the tiles cold against my skin, and look up at him.
He’s standing there, braced against the wall, watching me with an expression that says he knows exactly how much of a rookie I am.
I lean in, tentative at first. The scent of him - soap, sweat, and masculine heat - is intoxicating.
I press the head of my cock against his lips, tasting the salt on his skin.
I open for him, a soft groan vibrating in his chest, and as I slide the tip into the warm, wet cavern of my mouth, my breath hitches.
It’s intense. The suction is incredible, much stronger than I expected.
I move slowly, carefully, trying to find a rhythm that won't make me lose my balance on the slippery floor.
With each repetition, I take him deeper.
Every time the wet heat of his shaft slides down my throat, a fresh wave of pleasure rolls through me.
But Chase isn't content with just receiving.
As the friction builds, he reaches down, his hands gripping either side of my head, pulling me harder against him.
The pace shifts from careful to careful and dominating.
He begins to thrust into my mouth, the rhythm becoming fast, frantic, and punishing.
He’s giving me more of him, the depth of it stretching my throat, making my eyes water.
"Fuck," I moan, the sound muffled by the sheer sensation of him. "Chase... you're…"
He doesn't let me finish. He continues to face-fuck me with a brutal, expert precision. The world becomes a blur of hot, wet friction and the heavy scent of steam. His hips are jerking wildly now, driven by the sheer force of my mouth working him.
I can feel the cum gathering at the tip, a pulsing ache that’s about to explode. The sensation of my tongue swirling around the thick, veiny shaft of his cock while he pushes deep into my throat is too much.
"Chase!” I groan around his cock. “Chase!"
The breath is torn from my lungs as his climax hits.
It's violent, sudden and endless as he spills into my throat.
My back arches, my fingers digging into his ass as a thick, hot jet of semen erupts, hitting the back of my throat.
I don't pull away; I lean into it, swallowing every heavy pulse of him, my eyes squeezed shut in concentration.
Another surge, even stronger than the first, follows immediately.
I feel myself gulping, the muscles of my throat working around his cock as I take every drop.
A final, deep groan vibrates from his chest and travels up through my entire body, a sound of pure, satisfied triumph as we both collapse into the warm, soapy water, spent and shivering in the dark.
He hauls me in against him, both of us breathing hard under the cooling water, and for a second neither of us says anything.
Then he huffs out a breath against my temple that is almost - almost - a laugh.
From Chase. The grump. I pull back to look at him, and there it is: the smallest curve at the corner of his mouth, the ghost of approval I have been chasing since my first shift, except it is not approval anymore.
It is something warmer and far more dangerous.
"What?" I say, grinning, because I cannot help it. I never can.
"Nothing." He shakes his head, the smile fighting harder now. "You just don't ever stop. Not even…" He gestures vaguely, helplessly, at all of me. "Not even now."
"Nope," I say. "You're stuck with the talking."
And he laughs, actually laughs, low and quiet and real, his forehead dropping to my shoulder, and I feel it go all the way through me.
Because that is the thing nobody warned me about.
The sex cracked the wall. But this - him laughing into my wet skin at two in the morning with smoke still in our hair - this is the thing that is going to ruin me.
We shut the water off, dressing and toweling our hair in silence. But Chase catches my eye across the locker room, and he does not look away this time. He holds it. And the corner of his mouth is still trying to smile.
For the first time since the morning after, I let myself believe it. This is not nothing. Whatever it is scaring him, it is not because he does not feel it.
I fall asleep an hour later with smoke still in my throat and the imprint of his laugh still warm against my shoulder, and for once I do not lie awake taking it apart.
For once, I just let myself be happy.