22. Dalton
Dalton
The shower became something more than that in very short order. As we stepped into the stall, we were sheened with cool water, gasping under the chilly spray, because I had failed to check the temperature first.
Sputtering, I reached to turn up the heat, but Jake’s hand was on mine, and his mouth was on mine, and all of a sudden, the temperature was just right.
He tipped me back like a princess in a fairy tale, planting kisses along my chest, my exposed neck. Like he was inhaling me. Like he couldn’t get enough. Couldn’t ever get enough.
Then water went up my nose. Coughing, I struggled to stand up straight and pulled him to me. Our mouths met beneath that spray, and my eyes closed to absorb the moment. All I wanted was to be with him.
Sometimes a shower can make life pretty clear. Straightforward.
I tucked this thought away as I grabbed for a washcloth and the simple soap he used.
Totally unscented. I lathered up the cloth and then watched his face as I scrubbed the back of his neck.
A back-and-forth motion that made his eyes heavy-lidded, his focus on me.
His body absorbing the sensation of care.
In his life there must have been an absence of kind human touch, so he deserved every bit I could give to him and more.
I shampooed his hair and pulled him under the spray to rinse out the bubbles. His hands were on my waist, and he was biddable. I washed him all over while he stood still as an oak tree, head bowed as though receiving absolution.
But I was no priest. And he no penitent. The things I wanted to do to him, that I wanted with him, were beyond boundaries and rules. I felt it all through me. He should have only the best. And as I bent to wash his hips, his long thighs, I knew in my heart I wanted to give it to him.
I knelt down in that spray and took him into my mouth in one motion. He gasped, the sound layered with water, like a pause in a poem.
It was never like this for me. Where all I wanted to do was give and give until I filled him up to the brim with all the happiness he could ever want. I swallowed shower water as I licked his cock and sucked with long, drawn-out movements, my hand on the base, my tongue swirling the crown.
He was hot to my touch, in spite of the cool water, and I looked up at him, blinking against the spray. Rivulets ran down his taut belly, silver through his pubic hair.
“Okay?” I asked, checking in.
His expression looked to me like he doubted any of this was meant for him.
The pleasure and the cozy stall, the growing warmth of the water.
The intensity of my touch. The suck of my mouth.
But what he said was, “Don’t like you on your knees.
” When I blinked, puzzled, he added, “Shower floor is hard, any way you look at it.”
He wasn’t wrong. So I took the washcloth and then pointed for another and folded one beneath each knee.
“Better?” I asked.
He nodded, his eyes glowing, maybe because I had just been so stinking clever. And now I could continue with what I wanted: giving him what he wanted. What he deserved, which was my best effort. Everything I had to give.
I sucked him a good long time. Licked. Nibbled. Never hurried. Never rushed.
I wasn’t even being patient; I was simply there, present in a way that let me focus solely on him, shutting everything else out.
The shower stall, hard and cheap, was our shelter.
The water our cloak. The connection between our bodies a force field that could never be broken.
No one would ever find us, not as long as we stayed right where we were.
The taste of him, beneath the water, his salt, the deep scent between his legs, the texture of his cock, water-slick, the texture of his balls, thick crinkles. All of it I absorbed, my eyes half closed, a sense of peace surrounding me.
When I felt him tighten, his head going back, I held his balls gently in one hand and sucked slowly up and down his cock, feeling the pulse of his body, and heard the faraway sound from his throat.
When he came, I swallowed everything in greedy gulps. Held the shudder of his body between my two hands, and let go of him to stroke his thighs, slowly, up and down.
He reached for me and pulled me to my feet with a low grunt from his chest. He blinked away droplets of water as he looked at me, drawing me to him with those cut-glass eyes, green and gold and blue. Like a deep ocean, I wanted to drown myself in.
He pressed me to his wet chest, my hands on his shoulders when he kissed me, a salty, warm kiss. Then he took a clean washcloth and washed me all over with his plain soap, making me smell like him.
He washed my hair with the same soap and rinsed it twice until it was squeaky clean. I needed to get this man some conditioner. In the meanwhile, he needed more kisses. More of anything he wanted.
“It’s your turn,” he said.
“For what?” I asked.
I didn’t truly expect him to give me a blow job here in the shower. For one thing, my knees would buckle. For another, there wasn’t enough room for his long legs.
“To fuck me,” he said in a matter-of-fact way.
I flung my arms around his neck and rose on my toes to kiss him as he turned off the shower. I got a jet of chilled and then scalding water over my back, but what did that matter when I had him plastered all up and down my front?
“Do we have stuff?” I asked, thinking back to the last location of the small bottle of lube that I’d bought. Was it next to my cell phone beneath the driver’s seat, halfway to boiling? Was it beneath the shade of a cottonwood tree along the banks of Snow Creek? Should I get dressed to go get it?
“Don’t need any,” he said as he stepped out of the shower.
“What?” I asked as I followed him, thinking I’d not heard him right.
“Just use spit,” he said, buffing me down with a white towel.
I grabbed at the towel to still him. “Spit?” I asked, my voice rising. “Spit?”
“I like it that way.”
He returned to his task of drying me off. I found another towel and attempted to do the same for him, but before I was halfway done, he was pulling me out of the small bathroom. He dragged me to the double bed, with sheets and blanket and pillows in an untidy heap, and threw me on it face-first.
I didn’t mind the throwing, but I did mind the idea of fucking him without anything to ease the way. I struggled against the press of his body against mine. The kisses he trailed along my ear distracted me with shivery pulses.
There was no lube. We’d lost the bottle. He didn’t even have any lotion, so I could use that. Did he expect me to fuck him like a linebacker?
He held me to his chest and drew his hand down my back, and then between my buttocks, leaving behind more shivers. He plucked at my hole with a finger, and my body lurched forward as if to reply Yes, yes, yes. Fuck it. Use spit.
If it felt like that for him, then I was all in. I’d just have to go slow. Be careful. Pay attention.
“Okay,” I said, breathless as a sixteen-year-old virgin on their first date.
“Okay,” he replied, and then he was beneath me, sprawled out like a sacrifice. He was giving me permission to do anything I wanted to him. But the only thing I wanted to do was bring him pleasure, like he’d brought me.
With my weight on my elbows, like a proper gentleman, my chest half across his, I kissed him on the mouth and watched his eyes half close, in a lazy way, as though we were beneath the shade of the cottonwood tree in his favorite place, its waxy, heart-shaped leaves fluttering overhead, the sounds of the branches brushing together sweet-pitched and high.
He was all mine, and I wanted to keep him.
Without a word, he pulled my hand to his mouth and sucked on my fingers, all tongue and teeth and hot wetness. When he released them, they were slick with saliva. “This,” he said. “Just use this.”
That’s what he wanted, some linebacker action. He was going to get it, but with tenderness and gentle slowness.
I eased him onto his front, and by that time my fingers were too dry, so I sucked on them and then trailed them along his thigh, his beautiful, heavily muscled thigh, with those dark hairs making small swirls near his bottom. I was struck by how beautiful he was from every angle.
Heat was coming off his body as though someone had lit a fire within him. He’d be amazing to cuddle up to in winter, so maybe I should make every effort to ensure that happened.
As for now, I leaned down, straddling one of his thighs, and kissed the small of his back. Kissed the top of each buttock. Inhaled the scent from his skin, scentless from the soap, deep and warm beneath that.
I’d never rimmed anybody before, but if any man deserved it, this one did. So I eased my way down—more kisses, soft whispers against his skin—and worked myself up to lick between his buttocks. Tasting him, tasting dark and salt, shocked at my own boldness.
I pushed my tongue into him. Yes, I did. Inside, brave as anything. Felt the silky softness of him against my tongue. Pulled out to lick up and down his crack and knew there was no way I could ever do this to anybody else but him.
Beneath me he was mostly still, though his body rose and sighed with each breath, a fraction of a movement each time.
He tasted wet beneath my tongue. Felt wet when I pressed a finger in.
Perfectly wet and tight and hot. I moved that finger and listened to him breathe. Eased another finger beside the first.
“Spit,” he said. “You gotta spit.”
“Like, spit?” I asked, my voice a high squeak as I raised my head to look over the curve of his bottom. He was resting his chin on folded arms. “Like, literally spit, not just use spit?”
Taking him at his word, and kind of understanding what he meant, what he wanted, I gathered saliva in my mouth and spat down his crack. I hoped my aim was good.
“Now push in,” he said.
There was a marginal trail of wetness across his sweet, puckered hole, certainly not enough wetness by anybody’s standards, and my fingers were still inside him.