Steam And Worship

Steam And Worship
He crossed the kitchen in three strides. I caught his wrist and pulled him in. Tipped his chin back with two fingers under his jaw and sealed my mouth over his.

The sound he made; that moan, low and broken in the back of his throat ignited something in my chest. His lips parted. His fingers pushed into my hair, nails scraping my scalp. I swept my tongue past his teeth and tasted coffee and something sweeter, something that was just him, and my cock stirred against my thigh, thickening with a slow, heavy pulse.

Crane’s body went pliant against mine, the way it always did.

I bent and hooked one arm under his knees, the other around his back, and lifted. He wasn’t heavy—lean muscle and long limbs—but the weight of him in my arms sent a bolt of possessiveness through my gut. His legs wrapped around my waist. His mouth never left mine. I carried him out of the kitchen, down the short hallway, and into the bathroom, kicking the door shut behind us.

I pressed him against the tiled wall. I pinned him there, my hips grinding into his, and the friction drew twin groans from both of us. His baggy sweats did nothing to hide how hard he already was. Neither did mine.

I broke the kiss and looked at him.

Flushed cheeks. Pupils blown wide. His lips were already swollen. He was a mess and he was all mine.

“Elias,” he breathed. Just my name. That was all.

I set him down. His legs wobbled slightly, and I steadied him with a hand on his hip before turning him to face the wall. His palms flattened against the tile. His spine curved, presenting the slope of his lower back, the jut of his shoulder blades beneath the thin cotton of his shirt.

I hooked my fingers into his waistband. Peeled the fabric down with deliberate slowness, watching his ass reveal itself inch by inch—the pale curve of it, the dimples at the base of his spine, the dark cleft that split him like a promise.

“You are so beautiful, my princess,” I murmured as I removed his shirt.

My lips found one cheek, then the other. Soft kisses, reverent and slow. The muscle beneath his skin jumped at the contact. A shiver rolled through him from shoulders to heels.

I reached for the windowsill. The bottle was right where we always put it—transparent and half-empty, catching the diffuse light through the frosted glass. The cap clicked open. The gel was cool on my fingers before I warmed it, rubbing it between my thumb and forefinger until it lost its chill.

Then I touched him.

Two slick fingers slid between his cheeks, finding the tight ring of muscle. I didn’t push in. Not yet. I circled, slow and wet, tracing the shape of him, feeling him clench and flutter beneath my touch.

Crane whimpered. His forehead dropped against the tile.

“I love you like this, my sweet princess.” I leaned in, my chest pressing against his back, and dotted kisses along the curve of his neck—behind his ear, down to the tendon, across the knob of his spine. My fingers kept circling. “I love how you’re always so fucking needy for me.”

He shuddered. “Elias—”

“Shh.” I kissed the shell of his ear. “I’ve got you.”

I pushed in.

One finger first. The tight heat of him enveloped me to the knuckle, and Crane let out a sound that was half gasp, half growl. I worked it in and out, slow pumps, letting him open for me. Then a second finger joined the first, stretching him wider, and his hips bucked back against my hand.

“Look at you,” I said, my voice dropping into something rougher. “Taking my fingers like you were made for it.”

He made another sound—that moan, the one only Crane could make, sweet and desperate and utterly wrecked. It coiled around my spine and tugged. My cock ached. My balls drew tight against my body, heavy and full.

I pulled my fingers out. A slick, obscene sound. Crane’s hole clenched around nothing, and he whimpered at the loss.

“Patience,” I said.

I shoved my boxers down and kicked them aside. My cock sprang free, thick and blood-hot, the head already beaded with moisture. I slicked myself with the remaining lube on my palm, then lined myself up against his entrance.

Didn’t push in.

I just rested there. The blunt head of my cock kissing his hole, a whisper of pressure, nothing more.

Crane’s whole body tensed. Then he trembled.

“You’re so fucking perfect for me, baby.” I rolled my hips, just barely, letting the ridge of my crown drag across his opening without breaching. The friction was maddening. My thighs burned with the effort of restraint.

He gasped.

“God, Crane.” My voice cracked. I meant it to come out controlled, but he did things to me, and had always done things to me. “I so fucking love you.”

I kissed the nape of his neck. Trailed my lips across his shoulder. My hips kept their torturous rhythm, sliding the tip of my cock against his entrance, slick and teasing and never quite giving him what he wanted.

His breathing turned ragged. His fingers curled against the tile.

“You’re my little filthy princess, aren’t you?” I bit the words into the skin beneath his ear. “Say it.”

A growl ripped from his throat. His hips shoved backward, trying to take me in, but I pulled away just enough to deny him.

“Ah-ah,” I said. “Tell me what you are.”

“Yours,” he choked out. “I’m yours, I’m your filthy— fuck, Elias, please—”

Two minutes. I’d been teasing him for two minutes, maybe longer—time had gone syrupy and strange—and every second of it was etched into the sounds he made. Gasping when I pressed harder but still didn’t enter. Moaning when I circled my hips and let the head of my cock smear lube across his hole. Growling when I pulled back entirely and he was left empty and wanting.

His thighs shook. His knuckles had gone white against the tile.

“Please,” he begged. Desperate now. Voice shredded. “Elias, please, I need...please fuck me...”