He swiped a muddy hand through his hair. What the hell was he doing? Wasn't it bad enough that he was in this situation? Did he really need to make it worse by taunting Bonham? The guy who'd let him off—out of the goodness of his heart, apparently—when Sean had practically begged him to fuck him?
And that was the problem, wasn't it? Bonham had gotten the upper hand and kept it, even when it came to sex. Sean had been shown up—shown to have no control over his own desires, and shown to be willing to take direction, right down to how much noise he made when he came. Right down to having a gun in his hand and not using it to escape. Like a puppy, waiting on his master's voice.
Fuck that.
He pulled open the bathroom door and stomped inside, shedding his mud-caked clothes as he went. Through the steam, he could make out Bonham's silhouette through the white shower curtain. When Sean was finally naked, he yanked back the shower curtain and stood looking at Bonham's dripping form.
The cold, white light from the tiny window in the corner highlighted the impossible breadth of the man's shoulders, bouncing off the curve of every muscle in his upper body and fading away into interesting shadows below his waist.
Sean caught himself licking his lips. “Move over."
Bonham stared at him, his face running with water, his lips parted as if to speak and his stupidly long eyelashes pearled with tiny droplets. The most physically perfect man Sean had ever seen outside of an airbrushed photo spread.
"You can try to stop me,” Sean said, his hands fisted at his sides, “but I think we'll both regret it."
Bonham's eyes narrowed. The muscles in his jaw bunched. Sean squared his shoulders, ready to take the punch he knew was coming. But then Bonham stepped back, out of the spray, and made way for him.
The stall was tiny. Barely big enough for one large man, and now it contained two. Not a lot of room to move, and certainly no kind of personal space. Sean stuck his head beneath the spray. The water tasted of iron and sulfur. He could hear Bonham breathing behind him, deep and slow.
When he'd managed to rinse most of the grit out of his hair and off his face and torso, Sean said, “Wash my back?"
Bonham snorted. “You must watch some seriously bad porn.” But Sean could feel his hands hovering above the skin on his shoulder blades. When Bonham finally touched him, Sean let out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding.
Bonham worked the soap in circles over his skin. There was nothing tender in his touch, or particularly arousing, but Sean felt his cock respond anyway and tried not to be ashamed. This was what he was here for, wasn't it? He hadn't climbed into the shower because he couldn't stand to be dirty another five minutes. He was there because he wanted to be fucked. By Bonham. And this time, he was going to get what he wanted.
"Thanks,” he whispered, barely above the sound of the water.
Bonham hummed, sounding distracted. As if he had better things to think about. Sean stepped back once, and then again, ‘til he felt the other man exhale in a rush against his shoulder. He felt something poking just beneath the left cheek of his ass, and he smiled.
"Guess I'm not the only who watches bad porn."
Bonham's hands coasted over his hips and stopped. “You're playing with fire, kid."
"Yeah, you're real scary. I think we covered this."
The soapy hands dropped away, and he felt Bonham trying to slide past him and out of the shower. He stepped back again, pinning the other man to the wall.
Bonham grunted, aggravation coming through loud and clear in his voice when he said, “Ever hear of personal space, cowboy?"
"Ever hear of shutting up and fucking me, tough guy?"
"Not gonna happen."
"Why is that, exactly?” There wasn't enough space to turn around, so Sean directed his remarks over his shoulder. “You seemed interested enough last night."
"That was before...” Bonham let the rest of that comment fade and cleared his throat. “Move aside, kid. I'm clean enough."
"Before what? Tell me and I'll let you out."
The other man huffed a sigh against his shoulder. “Before I saw what Sanchez did to you. Now move."
"What Sanchez did ... you mean these?” Sean waved a hand at the bruises that marked his ribs. “What's that got to do with—"
"Not just there. Now move or I'll move you."
"Tell me what you mean.” Sean swallowed and went for broke. “Tell me, Jesse. Please."
The spray had gone lukewarm, and gooseflesh rose all along Sean's side where the water flowed over him, but he didn't move. And Bonham didn't seem inclined to shove him aside, for all his threats. After a few seconds of strained silence, the other man sighed again and said, “I'm not gonna fuck you after Sanchez used your ass like a knothole in a Goddamn oak tree. I'm not that guy, kid. I don't inflict pain where I don't have to."
Sudden heat suffused Sean's face like a third-degree sunburn. “I ... didn't realize. Is it ... does it look bad?” Christ, this was humiliating.
"You didn't realize? How could you not—” Bonham cut this line of question short to say, “Look, kid, I don't know what kind of bastards you've been letting in your back door, but this ‘victim of love’ shit? It's gonna get you killed."
"Huh?” Yeah, real smooth. But Sean's brain felt as fried as his face—shame and embarrassment so sharp it made him dizzy.
Bonham made a growling noise low in his chest. “I swear to fucking God, if you don't get outta my way..."
Sean moved to the right and allowed him to pass. He turned off the shower and watched as Bonham grabbed a clean towel from the rack and dried himself. When Bonham glanced up and met Sean's stare, his lips were thin and his eyes were narrow. He said, “You really didn't know?"
Sean blinked at him, feeling slow and stupid. “Didn't know Sanchez's a bastard? Yeah, I knew that.” He reached up and flicked a handful of wet hair off his forehead. “But no, I didn't know you could ... see."
Bonham nodded. “You ... uh...” He looked away, then looked back again, determination at war with discomfort right there on his face. “You hurting bad? ‘Cause after tomorrow, maybe you should see a doctor."
It suddenly occurred to Sean that this man—this masculine angel out of a Renaissance master's painting, and damn Frankie for being right about that—had spent a year and a half in prison. A place where no guy as pretty as Bonham ever slept easy, or walked without watching his back.
Sean pulled the shower curtain open the rest of the way and stepped out onto the wet tile. He reached for the other towel that hung on the rack and rubbed it through his hair. “Listen, I appreciate ... I mean, I get that you're trying to be...” Hell, he could do better than this, couldn't he? “Thank you for giving a shit whether you hurt me or not, but I'm okay."
"You mean you're used to it.” Bonham didn't phrase it as a question.
Sean shook his head. “I mean I'm not in any pain right now.” He didn't feel the need to mention the three days he'd had trouble walking after his last “date” with Sanchez. At least the bastard hadn't used a lit cigar on him this time. He turned to face Bonham full-on and said, “I bruise easy, and they look worse than they are. So you don't have to worry about—” He stopped talking abruptly when he saw Bonham's face change, closing down even more. Shutting him out. Sean sighed. “You know what? Never mind. I get it. You don't want sloppy seconds no matter how they're served. Can't blame you for that."
He pivoted and grabbed for the doorknob, but he wasn't quick enough, and Bonham had him by the wrist before he could move forward.
"Tell me the truth, kid. Tell me ... is this some kind of fucked up Stockholm syndrome bullshit?"
Sean laughed and twisted around ‘til he could see Bonham's face. “You know, for a kidnapper, you've got way too many scruples."
"Answer the question.” Bonham wasn't even looking at him. His eyes were closed, the long, damp lashes lying against his cheeks like open fans. The line between his lowered brows spoke of ... concentration? Or determinat
ion?
Sean felt the hand gripping his wrist tighten. He said, “No, this isn't some kind of fucked up Stockholm syndrome bullshit. I...” He stopped and licked his lips. “It's been a while since I've been with anybody other than Sanchez. I just wanted...” Embarrassment got the better of him, nearly choking him on his own words. “You gonna make me say it, Bonham? Fine, I'll say it.” He turned and swayed into the other man. Let his skin brush against him, all damp and hot and sticky. “I want it. From you. Now."
Bonham opened his eyes and lifted his face. Something like the barest hint of a smile touched his lips. He shook his head. “Pushy bitch."
Sean laughed. “Yeah, well, the subtle seduction routine didn't work for me last night."
"That's because I don't like being played."
"I'll keep it in mind."
"You do that.” Bonham reached up, hooked a hand around Sean's neck and pulled him down into a kiss that went from soft-and-easy to hard-and-hot in the space of a breath shared between them. Bonham nipped at Sean's lower lip, then swiped his tongue over and into his mouth. Sean could taste whiskey on his breath, which meant he must've had a drink before he came into the cabin. Somehow, the image of Bonham sitting in the front seat of his truck, covered in mud and sipping from the flask, made Sean's heart pound.
He didn't recall precisely how they got from the bathroom to the bed. In the next few seconds, his sense of his surroundings compressed to knowing the touch of callused fingers, the scent of clean male, and the rough feel of the thin cotton sheets beneath his elbows and ass as Bonham lowered him to the mattress and worked his mouth over his jaw. When he bit Sean's earlobe and scraped his teeth down the length of his neck, Sean groaned. Because apparently that set of nerves were hotwired to Sean's cock, and why the hell didn't Sean know that? Not like he was a virgin.
Then Bonham was reaching for the bedside table, where he'd left the bottle of lubricant the night before—right next to his .45. Sean let his head fall back against the pillows and waited, anticipation coursing through him. He wasn't nervous, damn it. He wasn't.
He heard rather than saw the bottle land on the pillow next to his head, then Bonham was whispering in his ear, starting with, “Easy, kid, easy. Won't hurt you, promise,” and moving pretty much instantly into kissing him again.
Sean had been a passive recipient up to this point, but now he gave as good as he got. Yeah, maybe he was out of practice—maybe he hadn't really kissed anybody since Cindy McBeetry in the eleventh grade—but he had lips, didn't he? And a tongue and teeth, and by the sudden little grunt Bonham made when Sean kissed him back, he hadn't lost all his skills in the intervening seven years since somebody told him that kissing was for girls.
All too soon, Bonham was working his way down again, sliding his hands beneath Sean's thighs and lifting. Sean prepared himself for the initial discomfort, the sharp burn and the sensation of being torn in two. The price you paid for wanting this.
So when Bonham touched him with just one cool, lube-slicked fingertip, lightly circling and barely pressing, Sean leaned up on his elbows again and frowned at him. “What—"
"Shut up.” The words were curt, but neither Bonham's face nor his voice matched them. “Just lie back and ... I dunno. Think of England. And try to fucking relax, would you? Christ, you could split atoms in there."
Sean felt that sunburn blush crawl down from his hairline to his chest. “You don't need to do that. I'm not ... fragile, damn it."
"Did I say you were fragile?” Bonham gripped his thigh with his free hand and squeezed, digging his fingers into the muscle. “Now, unless you wanna forget the whole thing—"
"No. That's okay, just ... hurry up.” Sean dropped down on the mattress again and stared at the ceiling, trying to slow his breathing.
Bonham pressed his fingertip into him and held it there. “Pushy. Bitch.” He pressed further, slow but deliberate, and Sean could feel him watching his face. Analyzing his reactions.
"Quit looking at me."
Bonham laughed, and was still laughing when he sucked the head of Sean's cock into his mouth. Sean yelled, more surprised than anything, and jerked down onto Bonham's hand. Bonham gave a few quick sucks and pulled off.
"That's the way. You ready for more?"
Sean groaned. “I swear to fuck, if you don't get on with it..."
"Yeah, all right. Flip over."
Sean flopped over onto his belly with a sigh of relief. He was about to rise to his knees when he felt Bonham's hand on his lower back. “Stay put.” And then the firm, careful touch returned, re-slicked and a little less gentle, and joined by a second finger pushing in and making a slow exploration. When Bonham added a third and crooked them ... just ... so ... Sean cried out, his voice cracking down the middle like a cheap plate.
"Oh, God,” he muttered into the pillow and rocked back against Bonham's hand, then forward against the mattress, needing friction on his poor, aching cock.
"That's it ... just like that.” Bonham's voice was filthy-deep, gritty as the mud they'd washed out of their hair, but sweeter somehow. He stroked in and out, long and smooth, hitting every nerve ending and all the good ones twice. Opening Sean up. And Sean was falling apart. Fucking Bonham's hand. Moaning and yowling like a cat in heat.
When Bonham pulled away a few seconds later, Sean twisted around to look at him. The older man's skin gleamed with sweat, and Sean could see a very slight tremor in his hands as he rolled a condom down his own cock, swollen and nearly purple in his hand. When he was sheathed and slicked with lube, he leaned over Sean's shoulder and muttered, “Bend your knee up a little."
Sean complied, half-turning onto one hip and giving Bonham room to fit himself between his legs. Then Bonham's body blanketed him, and it was all hard pressure, pushing and prodding. He tried to stay relaxed and open, but Bonham was no kind of small man. Not anywhere. Sean clamped down all over, his muscles and refusing to obey the direct orders coming from his brain.
"Shh ... easy. Breathe, kid."
"Please ... fuck, please..."
"What? Anything you want, just—"
"Please quit calling me kid.” He spat it over his shoulder, knowing the irony of sounding like a petulant five-year-old at that moment. But it broke the tension wide-open—made Bonham laugh, even—and everything got a little easier. Sean sighed, slumping into the mattress. “All right. Go."
And Bonham obliged, slow at first and careful, which Sean tried to find annoying and couldn't. Not quite. Not when every thrust lit him up like the San Antone Riverwalk at Christmastime. Bonham rolled his hips, digging in deep and keeping an angle that hit the sweet spot each time. Sean's cock dragged along the sheet with each stroke, a cruel tease that wouldn't get him off but kept him humping the mattress just the same. He heard himself moaning again, and didn't care.
After a few excruciating minutes, the other man grabbed Sean's hips and tugged him up and back until he sat hard on Bonham's lap, impaled on his cock. He could feel Bonham's hands gripping his hips—shifting him, guiding him—and knew the man must be strong if he could lift Sean's long, heavy body again and again.
"Fuck yourself on me. Lemme see you ride."
Sean reached back, grabbed Bonham's thighs for leverage and worked himself up and down, looking for that perfect angle again and finding it. Bonham's hand slid over his hip and curled around his shaft. He thumbed the head, where it was slick and weepy, and jacked him slow and hard. Sean felt liquid heat build in his belly and coil up his spine, like Mercury rising, and ground himself down with an endless circle of his hips.
Bonham grunted and let loose with a stream of obscenities in Sean's ear—a blow-by-blow narration of their every move, with an added description of what he'd like to do next time and the time after that. Phrases so filthy Sean blushed again at the images they conjured. He felt his control slipping.
"Come on. Shoot for me.” Bonham's voice had gone thready, shot through with strain. “Come on. Know you want to. Know you need to."
&nb
sp; Sean's body seized up tight. He felt his inner muscles close down again, holding Bonham balls-deep. So far inside Sean swore he felt him in his chest.
"Holy fuck.” Bonham's voice sounded breathy in his ear. He bit down on the spot where Sean's neck met his shoulder, and Sean came, spurting like a hot-spring geyser over Bonham's fingers and shaking hard enough to rattle the bed-frame against the wall. Bonham whispered something. He didn't catch it, too busy trying to stay upright as the shivery aftershocks assaulted him with every brush of Bonham's hand against his cock, every flex of his hips against his ass.
The overload of sensation made his teeth chatter, but he forced the words past them. “Y-your turn, Jesse.” He sucked in a breath that hitched in his chest and said, “Let it go. Wanna feel it."
Sean felt the other man smile against the skin of his shoulder. “Still with the ... pushy,” Jesse said, panting between the words. “Have to ... break you of that."
Sean grinned. “You can try."
Chapter Five
Hearing his name out of Sean's mouth for the first time didn't make the difference. Didn't break him—didn't make him quake or bite his tongue to keep from letting go with some girly little noise that would damage his sense of his own identity forever. Because he knew it could be a ploy. Just another move in the game they'd been playing since he'd walked into Heliotrope and saw Sean standing behind the bar.
It was only when Jesse closed his eyes and drank in the emotion pouring off Sean's skin—a warm glow of satisfaction twisted ‘round a rising spike of renewed desire that sounded like yes-please-more in Jesse's head—that he nearly lost it.
It made him want to bury himself in Sean's body—in his scent, in the tight-hot-so-good feel of him—and never come out. Set up housekeeping. Sign a lease, even. And that was all sorts of wrong.
The muscles in Jesse's thighs screamed under the strain of lifting what had suddenly become the younger man's dead weight. He grabbed Sean's hips and shoved forward, dumping him flat onto the mattress again and following, his cock still deep inside. Jesse could feel his own pulse pounding in random parts of his anatomy—his earlobes, his tongue, his toes. He lifted a bit, changing the angle of entry, and felt more than heard Sean's muffled keen into the pillow.
Phaze Fantasies, Vol. III Page 22