Chapter 31
Resurrection
Geoff
The bathroom is thick with steam by the time I step under the shower.
Heat first. Then sound. Water hammering my shoulders, my back, loosening muscles that still think they’re about to be tackled. I brace my hands against the tiles and let my head drop, eyes closing as the spray hits my face.
This is meant to be neutral.
It isn’t.
Because the moment my eyes shut, she’s there.
Christa. Not guarded. Not joking. This morning’s Christa. Warm skin under my hands. Her breath hitching. The way she’d looked at me like asking wasn’t weakness, like wanting was allowed.
She’s been coming to my bedroom almost every night in the last week and every time is like the first time again.
My stomach tightens.
And then my body betrays months of sulking silence.
And not with a twitch. Not with a maybe.
A full, undeniable response.
I open one eye and look down, half-expecting it to disappear out of spite.
It doesn’t.
It’s there. Hard. Heavy. Very much awake.
A laugh punches out of me, rough and startled. “You’re joking,” I mutter.
I wrap my hand around my cock before I can overthink it. Just to check. Just to confirm I’m not imagining things.
I’m not.
The sensation is sharp and familiar all at once, pressure and heat and that low, coiled pull that’s been missing for too long. My breath stutters as I stroke slowly, feeling the weight of it, the way it thickens in my grip, pre-cum slicking my palm almost immediately.
“Fuck,” I breathe.
Images of her flash through my head in fragments. Her mouth open. Her back arching. The sound she made when I touched her just right. When she came apart under my tongue, under my fingers, trusting me completely.
That’s what does it.
My strokes grow firmer, faster, the water pounding in time as I imagine her again, wet and open and begging, my name torn from her throat like she needs it to breathe. The thought of her coming undone because of me sends a jolt straight through my spine, my hips rocking forward into my hand.
I brace my free palm against the wall as sensation coils tighter, hotter. My body finally remembering what it’s meant to do. Who it’s meant to do it for.
Release hits hard and sudden, a sharp groan tearing out of me as cum spills over my knuckles, lost immediately under the spray. My forehead drops to the tile as my body shudders through it, pulse racing, breath wrecked.
For a moment, there’s nothing but water and steam and the thud of my heart.
When it passes, I stay where I am, chest heaving, letting the heat wash over me.
It’s not triumph I feel.
It’s relief.
Pure, bone-deep relief.
I get dressed in record time. Jeans, T-shirt, socks half-matched. I don’t even bother drying my hair properly. I just grab my towel, shove it vaguely in the right direction, and storm out of the bathroom like I’ve discovered fire.
Christa is in the living room, laptop open, one leg tucked under her, utterly unprepared for what’s about to happen.
“I’M FIXED,” I announce.
She blinks. Once. Twice.
“…Hello to you too.”
“No, I mean it,” I say, pacing in front of her like a man possessed. “It works. My cock. Fully erect. Not just a flicker. No false start. The whole bloody thing.”
Her mouth opens.
Closes.
Then she laughs. Not polite laughter. Real laughter. The kind that bends her forward and makes her clutch her stomach.
“You’re telling me,” she manages, “that you’ve just burst out of the bathroom to announce a medical breakthrough.”
“Yes.”
“About your penis.”
“Yes.”
She squints at me, laughter still bubbling. “Alright then. I’m all ears. What happened?”
I hesitate. Just a beat too long.
“I was in the shower,” I say. “Hot water. Steam. Brain did… whatever it does when you stop supervising it.”
“Mmhmm,” she says. “And?”
“And suddenly my body decided it had an opinion,” I finish. “Very firm one. Very… awake.”
She raises an eyebrow. “About?”
I shake my head quickly. “No details. Just… fantasy. General. Vibes.”
“Vibes,” she repeats.
“Yes. Non-specific. You know it doesn’t take much for us men.”
She laughs again, softer this time. “So your dick just… staged a comeback.”
“Like it’d been waiting for the right background music,” I say. “Very dramatic.”
She nods, thoughtful. “Well. That definitely needs celebrating.”
“Oh,” I say. “Does it.”
“Yes,” she says, already standing. “Hold that thought.”
She disappears into the kitchen. I hear the fridge open, close, then the unmistakable rattle of a can being shaken with intent.
She comes back holding squirty cream like it’s a prize.
I stare at it. “That feels… symbolic.”
“Exactly,” she says. “Success. Resurrection. Dairy-based joy.”
“I feel like I should point out,” I say, “that this is not in any medical handbook.”
She sprays a neat swirl straight into her mouth, wipes her lip with her thumb, and grins at me.
“Congratulations,” she says. “You’re operational.”
I laugh and hold up both hands. “I’m going to pass.”
Her eyebrows lift. “On the cream.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because,” I say carefully, “that feels too symbolic. And I’ve just had a very personal victory. I don’t need to swallow a metaphor.”
She stares at me for a second.
Then she bursts out laughing.
“Well,” she says, meeting my gaze without blinking, “I’ll swallow yours then.”
Before I can form a response, she lifts the can and sprays another generous blob of cream straight into her mouth.
Slow. Deliberate. Completely unnecessary.
She closes her lips around it, eyes still locked on mine, then grins as she swallows.
Something low and traitorous shifts in my body.
I inhale sharply and immediately look away, like that might help. It doesn’t.
“Oh,” I mutter. “That is not fair.”
She raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“That,” I say, gesturing vaguely at her face, the can, the entire situation. “That feels like… dangerous.”
She laughs again, softer now, clearly pleased with herself. “I thought we were celebrating.”
“We were,” I say. “Abstractly. Emotionally. Not… visually.”
She tilts her head, studying me. “You alright there?”
I clear my throat. Shift my weight. Pretend nothing interesting is happening south of the conversation.
“Perfectly,” I lie. “Just… noticing things.”
“Such as?”
“That my body,” I say carefully, “is very responsive to dairy-based confidence.”
Her smile slows. Turns curious.
“Oh,” she says.
“Yes,” I reply. “Very much oh.”
She doesn’t say anything else. Just watches me for a moment, eyes warm, amused, something else threading through it that makes my pulse kick harder.
And there it is again. Not dramatic. Not demanding. Just a little twitch.
My dick is definitely awake.
Very awake.
I let out a breath and laugh, half disbelieving, half wrecked. “This,” I say, “is becoming a problem.”
She leans back, utterly unapologetic. “Sounds like a successful celebration to me.”
And, bloody hell, she’s not wrong.