Chapter 4: Steam & Possession
The afternoon bled away into a soft, grey evening. They had stayed in the kitchen, then moved to the living room, a drift of limbs and lazy kisses on the sofa, the television murmuring something neither watched. The phone had buzzed intermittently, a persistent insect, but Harry had ignored it, letting the silence between rings grow longer each time. The statement was drafted, released. The machinery of his career was whirring into motion without him, for now.
“I feel sticky,” Ollie finally said, peeling himself off Harry’s chest where he’d been dozing. “From the kitchen. And everything.”
Harry ran a hand through Ollie’s hair. “A shower, then.”
The bathroom was a world apart from the warm, bread-scented kitchen. It was cool, sleek, a study in monochrome and brushed gold. Harry flicked the sconce on, casting a dim, flickering glow over the mirrored tiles. He turned the shower on full, and steam began to rise, clouding the glass enclosure, filling the air with the bright scent of citrus and bergamot from his expensive shower gel.
They undressed without ceremony, clothes pooling on the heated marble floor. Ollie stepped in first, hissing as the hot spray hit his skin. Harry followed, closing the glass door behind them, sealing them in a private, roaring universe.
The water was almost scalding. It sluiced over Ollie’s shoulders, plastering his dark hair to his forehead. Harry watched the droplets trace paths down the valleys of his back, over the firm curves of his ass. The frantic energy from the morning was gone, replaced by a heavy, deliberate intensity. The steam was a confessional.
He reached for the bottle, pouring a generous amount of gel into his palm. The scent intensified, sharp and clean. He stepped close behind Ollie, his chest against Ollie’s slick back.
“Let me,” Harry said, his voice a low rumble under the drumming water.
He began soaping Ollie’s shoulders, his hands moving in slow, firm circles, working down his spine. It was tender, almost clinical. But his fingers dug into the muscles, finding the tension Ollie carried there, kneading it away. Ollie sighed, leaning back into the touch, his head falling forward.
Harry’s soapy hands slid around Ollie’s hips, across his stomach, and finally wrapped around his cock. It was already half-hard, filling quickly under his touch. Harry’s grip was firm, possessive, his thumb swiping over the slick head on each upstroke.
“This,” Harry murmured, his lips against the shell of Ollie’s ear, his voice barely audible over the water. “This is how you wash properly. Every part.”
Ollie moaned, a soft, surrendering sound. He braced his hands against the cool tiles, his body bowing under the dual sensations—the scorching water on his back, the rough, perfect friction of Harry’s hand on his cock. “Fuck, Harry.”
“Yeah,” Harry agreed, his pace increasing. His other hand splayed across Ollie’s stomach, holding him still, pinning him in place. The soap made his strokes slippery, obscene. “You get hard so fast for me. Always so fucking ready.”
He was. Ollie was fully erect now, thick and heavy in Harry’s fist, leaking precome that mixed with the soap and water, creating a filthy, slick mess. Harry’s rhythm was relentless, a steady, claiming piston. He bit down on the muscle where Ollie’s neck met his shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to brand.
“Gonna come?” Harry growled. “Right here, with my hand on you? Like this?”
Ollie’s breath hitched. His thighs trembled. “Close… I’m so close.”
“Not yet.” Harry stopped abruptly, removing his hand. Ollie whimpered at the loss, his cock twitching, painfully empty. “Turn around.”
Ollie obeyed, his eyes glassy with want, his chest heaving. The water streamed over his face. Harry backed him up until his shoulders met the tiles again. He dropped to his knees on the shower floor, the hot water beating down on his neck and back.
He didn’t hesitate. He took Ollie’s cock into his mouth in one smooth, deep motion, swallowing him down to the root.
“Jesus Christ!” Ollie cried out, his hands flying to Harry’s wet hair, fingers clutching.
Harry hollowed his cheeks, sucking hard, his tongue working the frenulum with ruthless expertise. He bobbed his head, setting a brutal pace, his own need a secondary thrum under the primary objective of making Ollie fall apart. He could taste the clean soap, the salt of precome, the essence of him. It was dizzying. He reached up, cupping Ollie’s balls, rolling them in his palm, applying just enough pressure.
“I can’t… I’m gonna…” Ollie choked, his hips stuttering.
Harry pulled off with a wet pop. “Not in my mouth. Not this time.” He stood up, water streaming from his hair. He was painfully hard, his own cock jutting against Ollie’s thigh. “I need to be inside you. Now.”
He didn’t need to ask. Ollie turned, hands back on the wall, presenting himself. The steam and water had done their work. Harry spat into his hand, slicked himself roughly, and guided the head of his cock to Ollie’s entrance. He pushed in with one long, slow, inexorable thrust, burying himself to the hilt.
They both groaned, a synchronized release of breath. It was different from the counter—softer, deeper, aided by the water and the lingering relaxation from the morning. Harry set a slow, grinding rhythm, his hips circling as he pushed in, dragging his pubic bone against Ollie’s ass with each movement.
“This is ours,” Harry panted, his hands gripping Ollie’s hips, fingers pressing bruises into the pale skin. “This steam. This heat. No one else gets this.” He bit Ollie’s shoulder again, a claiming mark in the exact same spot. “You understand? No one sees you like this. No one feels you like this.”
“Only you,” Ollie gasped, pushing back against him, meeting every deep, slow stroke. “Always only you, Harry. Fuck, it’s so deep.”
The pleasure built not in a frantic sprint but in a rising tide, wave after wave, each one higher than the last. Harry’s thrusts became harder, losing their slow precision, driven by a need that was more than physical—it was a fusion, a desperate welding of their selves in this hidden, watery space. The sound of skin slapping, of their mingled grunts, echoed off the tiles, a secret, furious music.
Harry’s hand snaked around, finding Ollie’s cock again, stroking him in time with his thrusts. “Come with me,” he demanded, his voice ragged. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
It was the permission, the utter safety in the command, that shattered Ollie. His orgasm ripped through him silently at first, a violent tensing of every muscle, then a loud, ragged cry torn from his throat as he spilled over Harry’s fist, his climax pulsing through him in blinding waves.
The tight, frantic clenching of Ollie’s body around him was Harry’s end. He drove in one last, final time, his own release surging up from his core, flooding into Ollie with a choked, guttural shout. He collapsed forward, pressing Ollie into the tiles, his body trembling with the aftershocks.
For long minutes, they stood there under the cascading water, which was beginning to run cool. Their breathing slowly evened. Harry gently pulled out and turned Ollie around, gathering him close, letting the water rinse them both.
They washed properly this time, quiet, hands gentle. When they stepped out, wrapping themselves in thick, white towels, the bathroom was a sauna, every mirror fogged into oblivion.
Harry wiped a clear circle on the glass. He looked at their reflection, blurred at the edges—two forms, close, steam swirling around them like ghosts.
Ollie came up beside him, resting his head on Harry’s shoulder. “Signal and noise,” he said softly, his voice hoarse.
“Yeah,” Harry said, watching their hazy image. “That was the signal.”
Downstairs, in the silent living room, Harry’s phone, left charging on the coffee table, lit up. Not a call this time. A series of rapid-fire text notifications, one after another, a digital machine gun burst.
The screen showed a name: Jeff, his manager. The preview of the first message was visible.
Jeff: Harry. Call me immediately.
Jeff: The video.
Jeff: It’s not what we thought.
Jeff: It’s worse.