Page 101 of Puck Your Feelings

When we break apart, we're both panting. Both fully hard now, our cocks trapped between our bodies, sliding against each other with every tiny movement.

Kane reaches past me for the body wash, squirting some into his palm. He lathers his hands, the scent of soap filling the steamy air, and then those slick hands are on me.

"Feeling dirty, huh?" I manage.

His eyes meet mine, dark and enigmatic. "You might say that."

He starts at my shoulders, strong fingers digging into the muscle, working out knots I didn't know I had. His hands slide down my chest, thumbs brushing my nipples, and I have to bite back a groan. Down my abs, over my hips, around to my ass where he grabs and squeezes before moving down my thighs.

It's thorough. Diligent. Exactly what I'd expect from Kane, except there's nothing clinical about the way he's touching me. Every stroke of his hands feels deliberate, like he's memorizing my body, learning every dip and curve.

When his soapy hands come back up and wrap around my cock, I stop breathing.

"Fuck," I breathe, my head falling back against the shower wall.

He strokes me slowly, palm sliding up and down, thumb swiping over the head on every upstroke. It's not quite enough pressure, not quite fast enough. But it's perfect torture. My hips buck forward, chasing more friction, and Kane makes this low sound in his throat that goes straight to my dick.

I try to return the favor, reaching for the body wash, but Kane's everywhere—pressing against me, kissing my neck, his hand still working my cock, and I can't coordinate my limbs enough to do anything except stand here and take it.

"Kane," I gasp. "Let me—"

He kisses me again, cutting off whatever I was about to say. Our cocks slide together between our bodies, slick with soap and water and pre-cum, and I grind against him shamelessly because I'm beyond caring about dignity.

Then he steps back.

The loss of contact is so sudden I actually whimper, which I'm going to deny forever if anyone asks.

"I want something from you," Kane says, and his voice has dropped about an octave, all gravel and sin.

I'm staring at his cock—can't help it. Can't tear my eyes away from how hard he is, how the head is flushed dark, how there's a bead of pre-cum forming at the tip that the water keeps washing away.

"Oh, yeah?" I manage. To his cock.

"Yeah."

He steps closer, but not close enough for our bodies to touch. I can feel the heat radiating off him, can see the water streaming down his chest, following the lines of his abs, dripping off his cock. He leans in, his mouth right next to my ear.

"I want to fuck you."

My breath hitches. My cock leaks. My entire nervous system lights up like a fucking Christmas tree because yes, yes, absolutely yes, there is nothing I want more in this moment than to have Kane inside me.

But…

"I thought you wanted to go slow," I hear myself say, even though every cell in my body is screaming at me to shut the fuck up and bend over.

"I changed my mind."

He says it so simply. Like it's that easy.

But something about this doesn't add up. Kane doesn't do impulsive. Kane doesn't drag people across compounds and throw them into showers. Kane plans and overthinks and makes lists.

I hesitate, my brain finally clawing its way back online despite my dick's protests.

He seems different right now—almost manic, running on something I can't identify. What if this is some kind of breakdown? What if he regrets it after? What if he changes his mind halfway through and I'm left feeling like I took advantage?

The seconds tick by, water drumming against the shower floor, steam swirling around us. Kane watches me, waiting for an answer I can't quite give.

Then his patience apparently runs out.