by Jaime Samms
The gloss tasted like strawberries and confectioner’s sugar. And whiskey. He moaned. It was enough invitation for the singer, because Damian’s tongue flicked at his lips and he didn’t have even the remotest chance of denying entrance.
Sparks ignited through his core and he bent Damian’s head back, taking over, licking every last morsel of sweetness from his plump lips before he pulled back.
Damian stared at him, a glazed look darkening his eyes to gun-smoke and desire. “That’ll work,” he managed.
Stanley licked at his lips, searching for more of that elusive taste.
“I could gloss my whole body,” Damian offered. Steel glinted behind the smoke in his eyes, and a wicked grin curled his lips.
Stanley took his mouth again, just to be sure the younger man knew who was calling the shots. “Don’t tempt me,” he growled, as they parted for a second time.
Damian sucked in a breath and neglected to let it out or completely hide the shudder that traveled through him.
Stanley could see the very edge of the other man’s control, and he wanted to get there, hold him there, and watch Damian come apart as he went over the precipice. For that split second, he thought he understood Vance’s need to hold him down, contain him, control him while he fucked him.
“Shower,” Stanley said, gruff and short.
“Um.” Damian held up both his wrapped hands. “Now? How?”
Stanley stared, watched Damian flow to his feet, caught up in the fogged light of Damian’s hooded gaze, by his parted lips, still red from being kissed, and for a moment, he didn’t understand the question.
Damian draped both arms over Stanley’s shoulders and tapped the back of his head with one muffled hand. “Hello! Earth to Stan.”
That snapped Stanley out of his daze, and he grabbed Damian’s arms, thrusting him back until his shoulders contacted the bathroom door and it crashed against the wall. “Yes, now,” he grated, leaning into Damian, fighting to control his aggression. “Right now,” he said, and it sounded halfway from command to plea.
Damian’s eyes widened, glinted a tiny bit brighter, and the singer nodded.
“I can’t get my shirt off,” he panted after a heartbeat of silence. He lifted his wrapped hands as far as Stanley’s grip allowed and peered at Stanley though his lashes. “Help?”
Help. That was a recipe for disaster.
But now Stanley was hungry, and here was what he craved. Gently, he lowered Damian’s hands and pressed them flat, palms against the door. “Stay still.” He was afraid if Damian tried to move, tried to free himself from the corner Stanley had put him in, if he did much of anything at all, Stanley would lose what little control he had left. Fumbling with the miniscule and myriad buttons made his fingers feel fat and clumsy. He hadn’t felt this way removing Damian’s makeup. Maybe that was because Damian hadn’t been watching him like this, gaze riveted, breath puffing over Stanley’s face in short, sharp gasps.
“What’s your plan for getting it off over these?” Damian asked, lifting his hands just enough to draw Stanley’s attention to them, then placing them back where they belonged.
Stanley took the opportunity to tear his attention off Damian’s half-bared chest. He sucked in air, trying to loosen the constriction that stopped his breath in his throat. Looking the singer in the face was not a whole lot better. A pink flush of color had washed up over Damian’s cheeks, exaggerating his youthful looks. That smoky sheen of desire still clouded his gaze, though. Almost, it hid the unsteadiness of residual drunk and burgeoning uncertainty.
He touched his fingertips to Damian’s cheek, curious if the color added warmth to the younger man’s face. “That is going to be a problem,” Stanley agreed, eyeing the skin-tight, stretchless sleeves of the shirt. Even without the towels wrapping Damian’s torn knuckles, the sleeves wouldn’t stretch enough to get over the damage without abrading it more. “Not sure how that’s going to work, short of cutting the thing off you.”
The glitter in Damian’s eyes broke through the fog and he grinned crookedly. “That could be hot.”
Already half-hard, Stanley’s cock took notice of the new light and animation in Damian’s features. The realization of exactly how domineering it was to literally cut the clothes from the other man’s body didn’t help. Obviously, the idea appealed to the singer, because he was squirming in Stanley’s grip now, and once more gazing up through his lashes.
“Seems extreme,” Stanley managed, striving to remain practical. Sane. Responsible.
Damian shrugged and subsided against the door. “Just a shirt.” He watched Stanley, deliberately licked the tip of his tongue over his lips, and curled them into a triumphant smile when Stanley’s attention shifted to watch the antic.
“It’s an expensive shirt,” Stanley pointed out unnecessarily. Everything Damian owned was expensive.
“True. But there are more where it came from, so….”
“So?”
Another wicked little smile made Stanley’s mouth water. “So get out your scissors, Stan.”
“Fuck.” Stanley grabbed the smaller man and hauled him against his chest, covering that annoyingly tempting mouth and devouring every tiny sound that issued from it. Eventually, Damian’s shivering got through to him, and a soft moan, smothered and breathless, drifted through the lust haze to Stanley’s brain. He gently pried into Damian’s mouth with his tongue, relentless, demanding, but with care, and Damian opened to him. It took only a few moments of Stanley exploring his mouth, hand cupped to the back of Damian’s head, to have the singer sigh again and let his weight sink into Stanley’s embrace.
The surrender may have been unconscious, but it sparked a flame of need in Stanley to nurture it, shape it, to give the younger man an outlet for that desire to give in and be coddled. He fought hard enough, all the time, to be in control of his own destiny, and everyone’s around him. Damian pushed against the constraints of being a star and doing what the public expected so intensely, sometimes he rebounded too far in the wrong directions. He needed restraint, and Stanley wanted to offer it. He needed a place to put the persona away and just be the guy he was when he wasn’t singing.
“That’s better,” Stanley murmured, stroking fingers over the stubble of close-cropped hair at the back of Damian’s head. Gently, he pulled away from the kiss and planted a small peck on Damian’s forehead. “Relax.”
Damian let him guide his head to rest on Stanley’s chest and another soft sigh escaped. Carefully, Stanley lifted one of the singer’s hands and gently unwound the towel from it. The sight of the bloody, torn skin made him grimace.
“That is more than just ‘ripped up,’” Stanley said, his shock and gut-deep anger making his voice stern. “Someone did this on purpose.”
The entire back of Damian’s hand was ripped up. Loose skin dangled from his knuckles and fingers.
“What else did they do?” He lifted Damian from where he rested to look into his eyes. “What didn’t you tell me?”
“Leave it,” Damian said, attempting to ease his hand from Stanley’s grip.
“Tell me.” Stanley dropped the towel to the floor and took Damian’s chin in his hand so the other man could not look away.
“Already did.” Damian averted his eyes. He couldn’t move his head and he ceased his feeble bid for freedom. “Can we just….”
Stanley grunted, twisted to paw through his toiletry bag for the scissors he carried to keep his hair trimmed, and pulled them out. “Hold that there,” he instructed, positioning Damian’s hand where he could see the seam of his shirtsleeve. He was unable to soften his tone any. He wasn’t angry with his singer. He was furious at the deliberate infliction of pain and damage, but all he could do was be patient, calm, and try to clean up the mess. There was no way he was going to remove the too-tight garment over the damage. Damian had been through enough pain for one day.
“I doubt you told me the whole story, or that the bits you did share were told in the order they actually hap
pened,” Stanley said as he picked at the threads of the seam with the tips of the scissors. “I’m going to guess that Lenny stepped in to protect you because you went and got yourself into something you couldn’t get yourself out of.”
Damian said nothing. He didn’t lift his head either.
Stanley continued to snip at the threads in silence, waiting. The procedure was painstakingly slow, but Damian kept his arm still, tilted toward the light, and his body resting against Stanley’s side. Finally reaching the part of the sleeve that puffed out near Damian’s shoulder, Stanley helped him free his hand and moved on to the other one. It was in worse shape than the first, now that he stopped to take a proper look.
“Oh, Damian.” He rested the singer’s fingertips on his palm and leaned closer to examine how deep the scrapes across his knuckles went. He half expected to see the white glint of bone.
“Can we just do this, please?” Damian tried to sound irritated, but his voice came out flat, and his hand shook where it rested in Stanley’s.
Stanley repositioned them both, offering his support as he had for the previous sleeve. Damian hesitated, but after a few moments of standing there trying not to shake, he gave in and leaned on Stanley again.
“Better,” Stanley told him, catching his eye and offering a small, encouraging smile.
“What?” Damian muttered. “That I can’t stand on my own two feet?”
Stanley shifted, lifted Damian’s face so once again, the younger man had to look at him. “That you admit it.” He slipped a thumb over Damian’s lips, caressed his chin. “That you’re letting me do this for you.”
Damian blinked at him. “I can do it myself.”
Stanley smiled, suddenly feeling indulgent and in complete control of himself and the situation. “It hardly matters if you can do it for yourself. What matters is you trust me to help. Now be quiet.” He bent and placed an almost sterile kiss on Damian’s lips, pleased when the singer reached for more. “Be good,” he admonished, and watched Damian’s eyes flash and grow bigger, his mouth open like he might protest. Stanley wiped away his smile. “Be. Good,” he repeated more sternly.
Damian stared at him from big, gray-green eyes that were at last clear and unclouded. After a few heartbeats, he nodded his head minutely, and his gaze flicked down to Stanley’s lips.
“Lovely.” Stanley placed another soft kiss on his forehead and drew in a deep breath. This was not going as he might have foreseen. He’d been very careful to keep his distance, but Damian needed this so badly. He could see it, even in the way the younger man fought the orders, defied with his eyes alone, and in the way he finally sighed and gave in, leaned into Stanley and fluttered his eyes closed.
Stanley petted him one more time and shifted so he could get at the remaining sleeve. It was quicker going, now that he had the hang of slipping the pointy scissors under the threads and pulling the fabric to separate it just so. Before long, he had the sleeve apart and Damian managed to get his other arm free.
“Now the shower,” Stanley said.
Damian nodded, but didn’t move from where he was again leaning into Stanley.
Stanley guided him back to sitting in the chair. “You stay here. I’ll be right back.”
He needed a breather. He needed to collect his thoughts and steady his tremors. Mostly, he needed a drink, and didn’t care about how stupidly expensive the mini bar would be. From the tiny refrigerator, he selected a bottle of orange juice, a teeny bottle of vodka, and the whiskey for Damian. Washing the singer’s hands was going to require some fortification for both of them. He closed the fridge, then went back in and grabbed the second bottle of whiskey. Just in case.
“You ready for this?” he asked, twisting the lid off the whiskey, then handing it over. He mixed his selection into the bathroom drinking glass.
Damian took the offered drink, downed it, and nodded. “Sure. Can’t be any worse than when it happened, right?”
Stanley didn’t reply. He’d had a short-lived fascination with dirt bikes in his youth. One wipeout in the gravel of the sandpit had ended his love affair with too much speed. The only difference between that misadventure and this was he wouldn’t have to pick tiny stones out of Damian’s lacerations.
“It’ll be better to do this in the shower” was all he said, and then he strode over and turned on the water and adjusted the temperature.
Damian stared at him, eyes so wide that for a moment, Stanley could see the whites.
It shook Stanley, and he chuckled to cover the immediate shock of seeing that much vulnerability, even for barely a heartbeat. “What?” he asked, pushing Damian’s flopping hair off his face. “Now you’re shy?”
Damian’s expression morphed into a grin. “No. You?” That gaze was so bright, the light from it almost seared through Stanley’s resistance.
Stanley narrowed his eyes and studied Damian. “No.”
Behind the fevered light flashing at him from the singer was something else. It was dark. Frightened and so desperate Stanley felt it in his gut. It galvanized his defenses and reminded him exactly who and what they both were.
“I’m not shy, Damian,” he said. But he had to be practical. He had to be responsible and he had, above all, to take care of Damian and not his own haywire libido. “Come on. Get in.”
“But my… hands….” Damian’s gaze drifted to where Stanley was unbuttoning his shirt. “Oh.”
“You need me to take your pants off too?” Stanley asked, keeping his tone on the glib side of the issue. He had to be careful not to feed the dark fear or give in to the defensive guile Damian used to keep the fear at bay. Best to employ the techniques that worked and make the singer claim his space and his responsibilities, however much he wanted to give himself away to whoever offered. “I don’t cater to brats for free, you know.” He let his smile be ambiguous enough to leave the method of payment uncertain.
Damian’s hackles visibly rose at the implication, and he snarled. “I got it.”
“Thought so.” Stanley hid a relieved smile. He knew how to handle Damian. He’d known since the first day. It was no different here than in the office.
Keeping his thoughts and his hands to himself, he undressed and watched Damian do the same as the room filled with damp warmth around them.
The singer was not going to admit how difficult it actually was to get the wet, skin-tight denim off, with his hands in such bad shape. His face was completely the wrong color by the time he was done. His jaw was tight, his face pale, but splotched with red.
“Okay?” Stanley asked, cupping a hand around the back of Damian’s neck as he straightened.
Damian tilted to one side slightly, caught himself, and sighed softly as Stanley’s hand nestled against his skin. He closed his eyes for the space of half a heartbeat, then nodded and stepped away. “Fine.” He glanced around. “Where’d that other whiskey go?”
“Best hold off,” Stanley advised. “Wait for it. I promise you, this is not going to be any fun.”
“Awesome.” Damian shot him a deadly glare, strode past, and ducked behind the shower curtain.
Taking the opportunity, Stanley shucked his jeans, sipped his drink, and followed.
Damian was huddled against the end wall, his hands clamped flat against his chest, clear of the water’s spray. “I can’t do this,” he whispered. Even the splotches had left his cheeks, and he was deadly pale.
“Okay.” Stanley laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It’s going to be fine. We’ll do it together.” He adjusted the spray so he could draw Damian away from the wall, move behind him, and the water was still safely out of range of the singer’s hands.
“One at a time,” Stanley said, curling his entire body around Damian, cocooning him in the safety of his bulk, and taking his more badly damaged hand in his. Slowly, he inched it toward the falling water, his grip firm, his body offering both support and an unyielding barrier at Damian’s back.
Damian sucked in a breath and began to shake in
earnest as soon as the water hit him.
“OhGodohGodohGod.” His right foot started up a hard staccato rhythm, pumping in time to his cursing. “Fuckfuckfuckfuck.”
“I know, I know,” Stanley whispered, lips close to Damian’s ear. “I know, Trev.” His heart clenched at the pain he was causing, but the blood and loose skin had to be cleaned away.
“OhmyGoditfuckinghurts!” Damian almost shouted, and then he curled in on himself, trying hard to protect his hand from the water. A ragged whimper escaped.
Stanley moved them both back a pace and averted the spray.
“Breathe, Trevor,” he soothed, keeping his voice low and calm, his lips close enough Damian could hear through his harsh breathing. “Deep breaths.” Stanley demonstrated, as much for his own benefit as the singer’s.
Careful to keep the hand out of the water, Stanley pulled it from Damian’s protective curl and examined it. Water trickled pink from his fingertips. Raw skin stood out whitely around deep gashes over his knuckles, but there didn’t appear to be anything needing stitches. Most of the dried blood had been cleaned away from the back of Damian’s hand, and Stanley could see the fresh firefly tattoo had mostly been scraped to oblivion. With his nerves already raw from the tattoo gun, it was no wonder he was in such pain now. Whoever had done this to him, it had been deliberate and personal.
This wasn’t the time to get into it, though.
“We can leave that one for now,” he decided, and let it go.
Damian instantly pulled it back against his chest and nodded.
“The other one,” Stanley said, holding out his hand.
Damian shivered and sniffled but finally put his hand in Stanley’s.
“Good boy,” Stanley said, without thinking.
Against him, Damian stiffened; then he sighed and his curled body straightened enough to mold more thoroughly to Stanley’s chest.
As quickly and carefully as he could, Stanley cleaned that hand too. Damian’s leg started up again. The cursing flowed from him in a steady, whispered stream, and his eyes clenched shut.