Chapter 14: Stephen Amell 5
A thin, grey light was bleeding around the edges of the blackout curtains when Kenny awoke. His body registered the unfamiliar space before his mind did: the overwhelming softness of the sheets, the profound silence, the scent of another man’s skin and last night’s sweat baked into the pillows.
He was on his side. An arm was thrown heavily over his waist, a hand splayed possessively against his stomach. Stephen’s chest was a solid, warm wall against his back, the actor’s slow, even breaths stirring the hair at Kenny’s nape. He’d been held before, but never like this—not with this unthinking, unconscious tightness, as if Stephen, even in sleep, was clinging to a raft in a turbulent sea.
Kenny stayed very still, listening. The city outside was a distant, muted sigh. He focused on the points of contact: the pressure of Stephen’s forearm, the heat of his thighs tucked behind Kenny’s own. It was… nice. A simple, animal comfort he rarely allowed himself to receive. He closed his eyes, pretending for a moment it was something other than a professional aftermath.
A cramp threatened in his left calf. He shifted, trying to subtly stretch his leg.
The arm around his waist tightened instantly. The breathing at his back changed, hitching from deep sleep into awake. Kenny froze.
“Mm.” The sound was a sleep-thickened rumble against his spine. Stephen nuzzled the back of his neck, his stubble scratching. “Don’t.”
“Cramp,” Kenny whispered, his voice rough with disuse.
The grip loosened, just a fraction. Kenny carefully turned within the circle of Stephen’s arm, moving to face him. In the murky light, Stephen’s face was softer, stripped of its performative intensity. His eyes were half-lidded, dark smudges of exhaustion beneath them. He looked wrecked and utterly, disarmingly young.
“Hi,” Stephen breathed.
“Hi.” Kenny offered a small, morning smile. “Sleep okay?”
A slow, dazed grin spread across Stephen’s face. “I don’t think I dreamed. I think I just… shut off.” His hand came up, his fingertips brushing lightly over Kenny’s eyebrow, down his cheek. The touch was exploratory, curiously tender. “You’re still here.”
“You paid for the whole night,” Kenny said, keeping his tone light, a gentle reminder of the framework.
Stephen’s grin didn’t fade. He just nodded, his fingers tracing Kenny’s lower lip. “I did. And I’m paying for the morning. Shower with me.”
It wasn’t a question. The commanding actor was re-emerging, but the gravel in his voice was new, intimate.
“Yeah, okay.”
They untangled, the loss of contact making the air feel cool. Stephen swung his legs out of bed first, wincing audibly as his feet hit the floor. He stood, naked and magnificent in the gloom, a canvas of abuse. Kenny’s eyes tracked the geography of last night: the faint red lines from the cuffs on his wrists, the deeper, purple-yellow blooms of fingerprints on his hips, the dried, shimmering trails on his thighs. He walked stiffly, like a man who’d run a marathon.
Kenny followed him into the bathroom. Stephen reached in and flicked a switch. A chandelier, absurd and glittering above a clawfoot tub, came to life with a warm, golden glow. Steam began to rise as Stephen turned the gold taps, water roaring into the vast porcelain basin.
The room was a palace of decadent minutiae. Marble, veined with gold, caught the light. Crystal bottles stood in military rows. Stephen didn’t look at any of it. He stepped into the stream of water, hissing as it hit his skin, and leaned his hands against the tiled wall, head hanging.
Kenny joined him, the hot water a shock and a blessing. It sluiced over him, washing the patina of sex and sweat from his skin in greyish rivulets that swirled toward the drain. He reached for a black bar of sandalwood soap and began to lather his hands.
“Turn around,” Kenny said.
Stephen obeyed, presenting his back. Kenny started there, his soap-slicked hands moving in broad, firm circles over Stephen’s shoulders, kneading the tight, corded muscles. He worked down the spine, feeling each vertebra, then out over the powerful lat muscles. Stephen groaned, a sound of pure relief, and let his head fall forward.
“Your hands are fucking magic,” he mumbled into the spray.
Kenny smiled slightly. “Part of the service.” He rinsed Stephen’s back and turned him around. Water cascaded over Stephen’s face, plastering his dark hair down. Kenny took the soap again and started on his chest, carefully avoiding the visibly tender nipples. He washed the strong arms, the flat stomach. The intimacy of the act was profound, quieter than the night’s frenzy but just as exposing.
His own cock, under the hot water, began to thicken involuntarily. It was a natural, morning response, but in this context, it felt like a loaded statement. Stephen’s eyes drifted down, noting it. A different kind of tension entered the steam-filled space.
Kenny’s hands moved lower, soaping Stephen’s hips, his thighs. He was meticulous, clinical almost. Then his hand brushed Stephen’s flaccid cock. It twitched.
Kenny looked up, meeting Stephen’s gaze. Water dripped from their lashes. Stephen’s expression was unreadable—fatigue, curiosity, a flicker of rekindled heat.
Without a word, Kenny sank to his knees on the hard porcelain of the tub. The water beat down on his head and shoulders. He looked up at Stephen, whose face was all sharp angles and shadowed planes under the golden light. He took Stephen’s soft cock into his hand, stroking it slowly, firmly, under the slick flow.
“You don’t have to,” Stephen said, but his voice was tight.
“I know,” Kenny said. And he wanted to. This wasn’t for the count, for the record. It was for the way Stephen had held him in his sleep. It was a morning offering.
He bent his head and took him into his mouth. Stephen was still soft, a heavy weight on his tongue. Kenny worked him with a patient, dedicated suction, his tongue pressing along the sensitive underside. He used his hand in tandem, a wet, twisting motion at the base. He tasted clean skin and the faint, metallic hint of last night.
It didn’t take long. Under the relentless, warm heat of Kenny’s mouth, Stephen hardened, filling out until he was pushing insistently at the back of Kenny’s throat. Stephen’s hands came down, tangling in Kenny’s wet hair, not guiding, just holding.
“Fuck, just like that,” Stephen breathed, his hips giving a shallow thrust.
Kenny opened his throat, taking him deeper, letting the head nudge his constricted muscles. He bobbed his head, establishing a steady, deep rhythm. The sounds were obscenely loud in the tiled room: the slap of water, the choked, wet gutturals Kenny made, Stephen’s escalating groans.
Stephen’s grip tightened. “Gonna come,” he warned, his voice strained.
Kenny just hummed in response, the vibration making Stephen shout. He redoubled his efforts, sucking hard, his fist pumping what he couldn’t take. Stephen’s climax was a sudden, surging flood. Kenny swallowed convulsively, taking every pulse, until Stephen softened, twitching, in his spent mouth.
He released him, leaning back on his heels, breathing hard as the water rinsed his chin. Stephen slumped against the wall, utterly spent, staring down at him with a look of awed disbelief.
“Un-fucking-real,” Stephen panted.
Kenny stood, his knees protesting. They finished washing in a new, charged silence. Stephen stepped out first, grabbing two thick, white robes from a heated rack. He handed one to Kenny.
In the bedroom, while Kenny toweled his hair, Stephen called downstairs. “The usual breakfast spread. For two. In forty minutes.” He listened. “Yeah. And double the coffee.”
He tossed the phone onto the rumpled bed. He’d only put on a pair of black boxer briefs. As he moved toward the mirror over the vanity, the robe still open, Kenny saw the full map of the night.
Purple suck-marks bloomed like dark roses on the side of his neck and along his collarbone. His nipples were a shocking sight—bruised a deep, angry purple-brown, the skin around them swollen and tight. Stephen caught Kenny’s gaze in the mirror.
He turned, studying his own reflection, tilting his head to see the hickeys. A slow, strange smile touched his lips. He prodded a bruise on his nipple with his finger, wincing even as the smile widened.
“Look at this shit,” Stephen said, almost to himself. He met Kenny’s eyes in the glass. “I have a costume fitting on Wednesday. For a period drama. High collars.” He laughed, a short, incredulous burst. “My stylist is going to have a fucking aneurysm.”
Kenny leaned against the doorframe, tying his own robe. “I could have been more discreet.”
“Don’t you dare,” Stephen said, turning from the mirror. His expression was serious now. “I want to see them. I want to feel them every time fabric rubs for the next week.” He walked toward Kenny, stopping close. “It’s proof.”
“Of what?”
“That it happened. That I….” He trailed off, searching Kenny’s face. “That I can still feel something that real.”
The air between them thickened. This was departing the script.
A knock at the suite’s main door broke the spell. “Breakfast,” Stephen said, his actor’s mask slipping back on with practiced ease. He padded out to answer it.
Kenny followed. The dining table was soon laden with silver domes covering eggs, pastries, fruit, and a pot of coffee that smelled like heaven. They sat across from each other, the vast expanse of polished wood between them feeling suddenly formal, a re-establishing of boundaries.
Stephen ate with a voracious appetite, shoving scrambled eggs and bacon into his mouth. Kenny picked at a croissant, watching him.
“Last night…” Stephen began, putting his fork down. “The seven times thing. I didn’t know that was even possible. It felt like you were… rewriting my nervous system.”
“You asked for unforgettable,” Kenny said, sipping his coffee. It was rich, bitter, perfect.
“I did. But that was…” He shook his head, laughing softly.
But that was…” He shook his head, laughing softly. He looked down at his plate, then back up at Kenny, his eyes clear and focused. “It was a fucking exorcism.” He pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair, the robe falling open further to reveal the stark map of bruises on his chest. “I feel hollowed out. In a good way.”
Kenny watched him, the professional part of his brain cataloging the satisfaction in Stephen’s posture, the unguarded ease. The other part, the smaller, quieter part, felt a faint, unfamiliar tug. He finished his coffee. “That’s the point.”
Stephen’s fingers idly traced the edge of a table knife. His gaze was distant, then it snapped back to Kenny, sharp and present. “Come here.”
Kenny stood, walked around the table. Stephen caught his wrist, his grip warm and firm. He guided Kenny’s hand toward his chest, toward the dark, abused circle of his left nipple. Kenny’s fingers hovered an inch above the swollen flesh. He looked a question at Stephen.
“Go on,” Stephen said, his voice low. “I’m curious, too.”
Kenny let his fingertips make contact. The skin was fever-hot and tight, like a fresh burn. He applied the gentlest pressure.
Stephen’s whole body flinched. A sharp hiss shot through his teeth, and his back arched away from the touch instinctively, but he held Kenny’s wrist, forcing his hand to stay. The pain was immediate, bright, written in the sudden clench of his jaw. But beneath the wince, a dark spark ignited in his eyes.
“Jesus,” Kenny breathed, loosening his touch to just a feather-light stroke.
“See?” Stephen’s voice was tight. “Still works.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Everything’s still wired.” He pulled Kenny’s hand away, but held it in his own. “Do you want one more time?”
Kenny couldn’t help the disbelieving laugh that escaped him. “Seven last night and one this morning,” he said, his thumb rubbing over Stephen’s knuckles. “Are you sure you have anything left to give?”
Stephen’s answering laugh was raw, a challenge. “Let’s find out.”
He stood, pulling Kenny with him, and walked them backward toward the massive, disheveled bed. Their robes pooled on the floor halfway there. The morning light painted their naked skin in pale gold. Stephen’s cock was already half-hard, a testament to a physiological defiance Kenny had rarely witnessed.
Kenny pushed him gently onto the mattress. He straddled Stephen’s hips, feeling the solid heat of him beneath his thighs. He reached for the lube on the nightstand. Stephen watched, his eyes heavy-lidded, as Kenny slicked his own fingers and then reached behind to prepare himself, his movements quick and efficient.
When he was ready, he took Stephen in his hand, guiding the blunt head to his entrance. He started to sink down, a slow, controlled descent that made them both groan.
But Stephen stopped him with hands on his hips. “Wait.” Using a strength that belied his exhaustion, Stephen sat up, wrapping his arms around Kenny’s back. He kissed him, deep and hungry, his tongue demanding entry. At the same moment, he thrust his hips upward, forcing his thick cock into Kenny in one sharp, claiming stroke.
Kenny broke the kiss with a choked gasp, his head falling back. The fullness was breathtaking, a delicious, stretching burn. Stephen held him there, impaled, their foreheads touching, breathing the same ragged air. Then he began to move, a slow, rocking grind from his seated position.
The angle was deep, intimate. Each lift of Stephen’s hips rubbed Kenny’s prostate with terrifying accuracy. Kenny clutched at Stephen’s shoulders, his nails digging into the hard muscle, as Stephen fucked up into him with a steady, relentless rhythm. Their mouths found each other again, the kiss messy and wet, a tangle of tongues and shared breath that was more connection than passion.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” Stephen grunted against his lips, his arms like iron bands around Kenny’s torso.
Kenny could only moan in response, his own cock trapped between their sweat-slicked stomachs, leaking furiously. He rode the slow, deep rolls, letting Stephen set the pace, until the need for more, for control, became overwhelming.
With a surge of effort, Kenny pushed Stephen back down onto the mattress. Stephen landed with a soft umph, his grip loosening. Kenny planted his hands on Stephen’s chest, fingers splayed over the bruised pectorals. He looked down at the wrecked nipples, dark and inviting against the pale skin.
He began to move in earnest now, riding Stephen hard, lifting and dropping his weight with a driving force. The slapping sound of skin on skin filled the room, rhythmic and obscene. Leaning forward, he sealed his mouth over Stephen’s right nipple.
He didn’t suckle gently. He bit down.
Stephen screamed, a raw, shattered sound. His hips jackknifed off the bed, driving his cock impossibly deeper into Kenny. Kenny worried the swollen nub with his teeth, a ruthless, grinding pressure, while his hand pinched and twisted the other. Pain and pleasure fused into a single white-hot wire in Stephen’s brain, his body seizing with overloaded sensation.
“Oh god, oh fuck, right there, don’t stop, don’t stop biting me,” Stephen babbled, his hands scrambling over Kenny’s back, his ass, anywhere he could hold on.
Kenny rode him through the storm of words, his own climax coiling tight in his gut. Stephen’s hand snaked between them, his fingers wrapping around Kenny’s dripping cock. His stroke was rough, uncoordinated, perfect.
“Come for me,” Stephen demanded, his voice a broken wreck. “Come all over my fucking hand.”
The command, the brutal friction, the sharp pain from Stephen’s nails digging into his hip—it shattered Kenny. He threw his head back, his back arching, and came with a shout that tore his throat raw. Thick stripes of white shot across Stephen’s chest and stomach, mixing with the dried remnants of earlier rounds.
Seeing Kenny come, feeling the convulsions around his cock, sent Stephen over the edge. His own orgasm was a silent, breathless explosion, his body bowing off the bed as he emptied himself deep inside Kenny with a series of weak, helpless pulses.
They collapsed together, a heap of trembling limbs and sticky skin. The only sound was their ragged, struggling breaths.
After a long while, Kenny shifted, feeling the cool slide of Stephen’s spend leaking out of him. He made to get up.
Stephen’s hand shot out, clutching his arm. “Shower,” he mumbled. “Together. Again.”
This time, the shower was silent, a utilitarian rinsing away of the evidence. They dressed in the clothes from the previous night, the air between them now pragmatic, the spell broken by the mundane act of tying shoelaces and checking for wallets.
At the suite’s door, Stephen paused. He looked at Kenny, really looked at him, as if memorizing his face. He pulled a folded envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to Kenny. The agreed-upon fee, plus a significant, silent bonus.
“Thank you,” Stephen said. The words were simple, but his voice carried a weight that went beyond the transaction. It wasn’t gratitude for services rendered. It was for the exorcism.
Kenny nodded, pocketing the envelope. “Anytime.”
They rode the elevator down together in a comfortable silence. The lobby was a monument to impersonal luxury. They pushed through the heavy glass doors, the Los Angeles morning bright and noisy and real.
On the sidewalk, Stephen turned, offering his hand. Kenny took it. The handshake was firm, lingering a beat too long.
“See you around, Kenny James.”
“See you, Stephen.”
Kenny watched him slide into a waiting black town car. The window tint was too dark to see inside once the door closed. The car pulled into the relentless flow of traffic and was gone.
Kenny stood for a moment, the sun warm on his face, the envelope a thick presence in his pocket. He turned and walked in the opposite direction, towards his own car, towards the rest of his day, feeling the ghost of Stephen’s grip on his hand and the deeper, more disquieting ghost of the man’s exhausted, grateful eyes.