Page 39 of Saving the Rain
Fuck my miserable life; I’ve definitely got worse Daddy issues than I thought if seeing him wear his cap backward leaves me feeling a certain way.
Just like that night, when my fingers dug into his strong chest far longer than they should have, I turn on my heel and disappear to the other end of the house. Moving as fast as my stupid knee will allow.
By the time I’ve bolted to safety inside the bathroom, steam rises to coat my cheeks, burning with shame. Surely I need to pluck my eyeballs from my skull, because, hell no, I didnotjust look at him and feel butterflies.
Wrestling out of my t-shirt and sweats, tossing them into the hamper, I’m both pissed off and weirdly, confusingly horny.
I’ve taken to having baths in my sorry state. Lowering myself into the water feels nothing like being a rough stock riding rodeo stud, and a whole lot like a Victorian Lordling suffering from some unknown malady.
Basically, I hate it.
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 myblood 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 onZeke 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 ableto 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 offeelings. 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’tthatthe 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 isso 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 hisdark 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.