I can’t help it. My thumb sinks into it. “I missed this.”
A blush rises in his cheeks. “Sweet talker,” he mumbles with a little shake of his head and resumes unzipping my pants. He tries tugging them down but the wet denim is glued to me.
“Having trouble, baby?”
“Don’t start,” he huffs, grasping both sides and shoving—
They slip down my thighs, taking my boxers too. He stumbles back as I kick them aside, grinning at his stunned expression.
His mouth opens. Closes. Opens.
I can’t tell if he’s horrified or intrigued.
“Y-you’re pierced.”
I smirk. “Great observation.”
He’s too busy gaping at my erect cock— more specifically, the silver barbell sitting under the crown— to notice my scars. I initially got it for the pain, as I've done with all of my piercings. (They're as addictive as tats, but claiming it's part of an edgy aesthetic is more acceptable than admitting to punishing yourself.) Either way, I take the distraction and stalk toward him.
Wide hazel eyes can’t find a place to land on my naked skin.
“Oh god, this is so bad,” he whines, back hitting the shower door. Pinnedat my mercy.
Tracing a line of his abdomen above the waistband of his sweats, I whisper, “Why’s that?”
His head falls back against the glass, eyes heavy-lidded and lips parted. He’s wrecked and I haven’t even gotten started. It’s fuckingeverything.
“You’re gonna get the wrong—” he gasps as I lick up his throat. “Idea.”
A light suck on his pulse point. His throat bobs. I hum, “I’m pretty sure I know exactly where this is going,” and slip into his pants. Teasingly, I run my knuckles against his lower stomach, the pads of my fingers brushing his twitching cock.
He sucks in a sharp breath.
My other hand sneaks around to his lower back, dipping past the elastic of his boxers.
“This was supposed to be about you,” Remy protests.
My middle finger rubs the top of his crease. His cock jumps.
I nip his earlobe. “Trust me, it is.”
“That’s the whole fucking point, asshole, Idon’ttrust you,” he snaps, but there’s no bite. My sunshine is flushed, panting and needy as fuck. And I’m high— higher than any chemically induced sensation. It’s right with him. It's life spent in shades of grey to suddenly seeing the world in vivid color. It’s the damaged, brittle muscle in my chest waking from a coma. It’s coming home after a brutal journey.
“Like you said, I’ve got a lot of groveling to do,” I whisper, kissing him before he can fight me further. The second our lips meet, he's pliable, arching off the glass as I start stripping him.
Impulse urges me to pick up the pace, but I’m determined to savor this. Golden skin— warm and taut— glides under my greedy hands. He’s all defined angles and smooth planes of muscle like a Michelangelo sculpture; I’m compelled to worship every inch of his heavenly perfection.
“This doesn’t,” he pants, “mean,” gasps, “we’re back,” heaves, “together.”
I roll his bottom lip through my teeth, eliciting a helpless whine from him.Jesus fuck, that sound.
“Yet.”
He groans. “What am I doing?”
“Relapsing with me.”
Our eyes connect, then drop between us.
