Page 25 of Saving the Rain (Crimson Ridge #4)
I hate that I can’t rely on myself to do normal shit like stand in a wet, tiled shower. My body isn’t trustworthy, and that makes my blood curdle with distaste for my own uselessness. It’s a special kind of embarrassment to endure, and it’s all thanks to my mistake.
What the fuck was I thinking? I know better than to get on a bronc when my head isn’t in the right place.
Even worse than all that, is the fact I’m reclining in this stupid oversized bathtub, floating like a fish in a tank, and my cock is heavy and semi-erect on my lower stomach.
It sits there, defying my grumbling protests to stand the fuck down.
And the longer I stay like this, with the swollen crown sticking out, and my length flinching and twitching as it fills, the more ashamed I feel.
Not for the impending situation—the guarantee that a soak in this bath is gonna end up in me jerking off—but for the deeply depraved core of a thought, the root of this horribly erect problem.
A moment’s weakness, a shadow which has managed to slip past the barricade inside my mind.
Now, here I am, with a rapidly thickening cock, and the reason that motherfucker is demanding attention is because of my stepbrother.
What in the actual fuck is wrong with me?
Is it the meds? The concussion? Did I smack my head so hard my wires have fractured apart and then fused together in a messed up, deeply troubling arrangement—one where I’m left fighting the urge to relieve this insanity?
There is no way in hell I should be fixating on Zeke Rainer , or his obsidian gaze, or how his rough touch might feel cupping my jaw. None whatsoever.
This is some prime-time, trash TV, reality show level of bullshit.
I let my head thud back against the lip of the bath as a groan bubbles up.
With fists curled at my sides, I’m clinging tooth and nail to the moral high ground of not touching myself.
.. not yet, not so enthusiastically. Except it’s pathetic and futile because my dick is right there, only inches from my palm, and as much as I wince at the reality of my dick-compass pointing in the wrong direction, I’m not gonna be able to retreat to my bedroom looking like a wounded creature with a cock bobbing and slapping against my abs while determinedly at full-mast.
This is so many levels of wrong. I’m the worst newly fledged gay man—or whatever it is that I am—because I clearly can’t be trusted with these sorts of feelings .
I’m sorry, everyone; I let the team down in spectacular fashion from the second I burst out the chute, because my attention is fixated on the wrongest of wrong men to be lodged inside my horny brain.
Why can’t I be getting hard to memories of the guy I kissed? Why isn’t that the secretive, passionate moment making my dick ache and my balls feel heavy with need?
Why do I want to know the textured glide of Raine’s fingertips mapping my muscles... his mouth going places on my body I’ve only ever explored with fumbling, awkward prods of my fingertips?
Jesus.
My dick jerks, a heavy thump landing in my balls as soon as that idea crosses my mind.
I’m weak, and I give in. Spitting in my palm, I wrap my hand around the wet length of me straining for relief. The moment my fingers curl around the hot, smooth skin, I shudder and fight against the noise that threatens to escape.
Casting a furtive glance at the door to make sure I did, in fact, close it behind me—my eyes slam shut.
This feels way too fucking good, too fast. Heat is already surging through my groin from the first second my hand starts to move.
Yet, as awesome as it feels to be stroking myself with this added slickness, I can’t bear to watch.
Thanks to the source of this throbbing situation in my fist, it’s clear as day. .. I’m deeply messed up.
It gets worse the faster my hand glides from root to tip, and my heart rate kicks up several notches. I’m not lost to the allure of a slick pussy to sink into, nor am I turned on by imagining a feminine mouth sucking me down.
No. The scene my brain has settled on is so wrong .
I’m back in that kitchen, late at night, with my palms flattened over his chest. The scents of him wash over me, masculine and tinged with soap as his dark hair hangs slightly wet and tousled over his forehead.
That short-cut beard coats his strong jaw, and hooded, dark eyes capture my own.
I work myself harder, pressure building along my spine, with the need, oh god, the feverish urgency for what comes next.
I feel it racing forward, the dryness in my mouth heralding a nervous anticipation.
There’s no pain as I sink to my knees, and he lets my hands slide down his stomach.
He’s not stopping this. My touch is fucking ravenous, tracing every firm, solid inch of his torso beneath that thin fabric.
If my blood could scorch to flames right now, it would. I’m chasing the stroke of my fist, subtly shifting my hips beneath the water.
God, he’s so imposing and silent, looking down on me as I settle between his feet.
Raine watches my face with darkened eyes, and I swallow thickly beneath that quiet judgment.
His cock presses against the front of his sweats, forming an impressive outline.
As hard as my heart is hammering right now, as nervous as I feel, I want this so badly.
Jesus Christ. A choked noise echoes around the silent bathroom, the only other sound comes from water sloshing gently against the tub, because this is dizzying to let myself think about.
I’m tugging rougher, faster, more urgent now as I allow myself to fully fantasize about a guy for the very first time.
I’ve never done this before, never jerked off while putting myself in the position of being with a man, and oh my fucking god, it’s my stepbrother I’m imagining being on my knees for. It’s the biggest asshole I know who I’m imagining reaching out to cup my face.
He flicks his eyes in silent command, and I hastily drag his sweats down. The massive goddamn length of him bobs in my face, and I’m so eager, it should be embarrassing. I lean forward, wrapping my mouth around him, and suck down.
It’s blurry, a fragment of my imagination pulling on memories of having my own dick sucked and how good that felt and transferring that to what it would be like to be the one lapping and running my tongue along his length.
My fist tightens, my hips lift, and I’m so close. The tingling sensation extends from my groin down to my balls, and a flash like lightning zaps to the base of my spine .
In my dirty little forbidden fantasy, Raine strokes my hair, and I don’t exactly know what he’s saying, but it doesn’t matter. Sparks burst behind my squeezed-shut eyelids, blood thunders in my ears, and my fist pumps my cock, desperately seeking a release.
Is he gonna spill down my throat? I think he is. My teeth dig into my bottom lip as I imagine what he might taste like, how he might let out a satisfied groan as he comes.
That’s the thought—of how pleased he might sound when he unravels—that shoves me over the edge.
My balls draw tight, and my chest damn near explodes at the same time as my cock does.
Gasping, panting breaths leave my lungs as cum shoots forward.
Thick, hot ropes land on my stomach, splashing up my chest, coating my fist, and I swear I’m gonna float right out of this bathtub.
Heady, overwhelming relief floods my veins as my strokes slow.
It takes a moment to focus. Peeling open my eyes, I gradually find my bearings.
Holy fuck.
Rejoining reality, I’m met with the evidence of my illicit trance I’d fallen prey to. Cum streaked over my damp skin, my hand still wrapped around my length, also slick with my release.
It leaves me momentarily struck by how much I enjoyed that sordid daydream. Followed by an even deeper dread that this is incredibly dangerous territory to be entertaining thoughts of.
In no world should I be shooting cum like a fucking rocket while fantasizing about my stepbrother’s dick. Certainly not at all, and definitely not because it felt good to imagine how the weight of him might fill my mouth.
I’ve got to get my shit together.
And no matter how upended I am sexually, I’ve got to find myself something, someone—anyone else—to fixate on.
Because this can never happen again.