The water streams between our bodies, slicking the area where we press together. I rock forward, experimental, and watch his eyelids flutter. The head of my dick drags along his shaft, the sensitive skin catching and sliding, and the sound that escapes me is raw—guttural. Not something I'd let out in any other context.
"Fuck," Philip breathes. His hands slide up my shoulders, one threading over my shaved head. The sensation shoots straight to my groin.
I set a rhythm. Slow, deliberate, because I don’t want this to be over. Each roll of my hips presses our cocks together from root to tip, the friction building in increments, the drag of skin on skin sending sparks up my spine. Philip's dick is thick against mine, weeping pre-cum that mixes with the shower spray, and I can feel every ridge, every vein as we move together.
"Look at me," I command gently.
His eyes open, and for once there's no guard in them. Just heat, and something rawer—something that looks almost like fear. I recognize it because I've felt it too. The terror of wanting something you've convinced yourself you can't have.
I keep moving. My hips roll in a steady grind, our cocks trapped between our bellies, sliding and catching in a rhythm that turns my blood to fire. The wet slap of skin against skin mixes with the shower's hiss, obscene and intimate. Philip's breath comes faster now, puffing against my collarbone in sharp gasps. His fingers tighten on my skull, and I feel the tremor running through his frame.
"This is—" he starts, voice cracking.
"I know." I slide my hands from his hips to the small of his back, pulling him closer. The angle changes, and the head of my cock catches beneath the ridge of his, sending a spike of pleasure through my gut. I groan, low and long, and feel him shudder in response.
The bathroom fills with steam and the sound of our breathing—harsh, ragged, perfectly synced. I've had sex in showers before. Quick, functional, forgettable. This is something else entirely. The way Philip's body fits against mine, the noises he makes when I grind just right, the way his cock throbs against my shaft. It's like nothing else I’ve ever experienced.
"Harder," he says, and his voice is pure gravel.
I adjust my stance, planting my feet on the tiles, and obey. Each thrust pushes our cocks together with more pressure, more friction, and the pleasure builds like a wave… gathering, swelling, promising to break. Philip meets me stroke for stroke, his hips rolling in counterpoint, and the sound our bodies make is wet and filthy and perfect.
His head drops forward, forehead pressing against my chest. I feel his goatee scrape against my tattoo, and the sharp contrast of that sensation makes my balls draw tight. I'm close.
"Philip." I tilt his chin up, forcing him to meet my eyes. "Stay with me."
He rocks against me harder, faster, and his cock pulses against mine. The orgasm builds at the base of my spine, pressure and heat twisting into something that feels dangerously close to more than just physical release.
Philip bites my shoulder when he comes. Not hard but hard enough to push me over the edge as well. We spill all over each other before the water washes away what just happened.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. The water pounds down, the steam swirls, and all I can hear is the ragged sound of our breathing.
Then, slow, I meet his gaze.
His eyes are dazed, his lips swollen, his body marked by me. I kiss him, slow and deep, my hands cradling his face, my thumbs brushing over his cheekbones.
“Wow,” I murmur against his lips.
Philip huffs a laugh, his forehead dropping to my shoulder. “Wow indeed.”
I hold him there, under the water, his body warm and pliant against mine. The steam wraps around us, the sound of the waves outside a distant rhythm, and for the first time in a long time, I don’t want to pull back.
I want to stay.
Chapter 7
Philip
This is not howtonight was supposed to go.
I lie back against the pillows, damp hair cooling against my neck, a towel slung low around my waist, and stare up at a ceiling I do not own in a house I definitely did not plan to end up in.
And yet.
Here I am.
Mark’s bedroom looks exactly as I should have expected. Clean lines, pale wood, soft blues and greens that ought to feel pretentious but somehow don’t. Minimal without being cold. Like everything has been chosen with the same quiet certainty Mark seems to apply to everything else.
The bed is excessive.
