Chapter 7: Steamy Confessions
The silence after was different this time. It wasn't empty. It was full, saturated with the echo of Mark's words hanging in the humid air. I’m your girl, babe. They lay tangled, Ben’s weight a solid, sweating anchor on Mark’s chest. The only sound was their ragged breathing syncing, then slowly decoupling.
Ben pushed himself up onto his elbows, his face slick with sweat and something else. He looked down at Mark, his expression unreadable, a closed door. Without a word, he rolled off the side of the bed, his feet hitting the floor with a soft thud. He walked into the attached bathroom, leaving the door open.
The shower started. The sharp hiss of spray hitting tile.
Mark lay there, feeling the cool air dry the sweat on his skin. The sensations were still echoing through him, unfamiliar aftershocks. His body felt used, profoundly altered, and yet his mind was preternaturally clear. He’d won. He’d broken something open between them, and the chaos felt like control. He sat up, the sundress a ruined puddle around his waist. He looked at the open bathroom door, at the steam beginning to curl into the bedroom.
He got up. His legs felt shaky, but it was a good shake, the kind after a hard-fought match. He walked to the bathroom doorway.
Ben stood under the torrent, head bowed, hands braced against the slick tiles. The water sluiced over the hard contours of his back, the muscles in his shoulders knotted with tension. He didn’t turn.
Mark leaned against the doorjamb, watching. The steam coated his skin. “Running the play again?” he asked, his voice sounding rough.
Ben’s head turned slightly, a profile etched in the foggy glass of the shower door. “It’s called hygiene, Hammer. You should try it sometime.” The old nickname was a feeble shield. His voice was flat, drained.
“You missed a spot,” Mark said, and pushed off the doorframe.
He slid the shower door open. The blast of hot, wet air was a slap. Ben stiffened but didn’t turn around. Mark stepped in, the water instantly plastering his hair to his scalp, the ruined dress to his skin. He crowded behind Ben, the space tight and echoing.
“What are you doing?” Ben asked to the wall.
“Helping.” Mark reached for the bar of soap, its sharp, generic smell cutting through the steam. He lathered his hands and then placed them on Ben’s back.
Ben flinched as if shocked. Then he exhaled, a long, shuddering release that melted some of the rigidity from his spine.
Then he exhaled, a long, shuddering release that melted some of the rigidity from his spine. Mark’s hands worked the soap into a slick lather, smoothing it over the broad planes of Ben’s shoulders. The water beat down, turning the suds into rivers that vanished into the drain.
His hands slid lower, following the defined groove of Ben’s spine. He felt every muscle, every scar from the field he knew by heart. This was a territory he’d mapped in crowded locker rooms, but now his touch held a new, claiming ownership. Ben didn’t move. He just stood there, head down, accepting the ministry of Mark’s hands.
Mark pressed closer, the wet fabric of his dress a strange, clingy barrier between them. His front met Ben’s back. A soft, unexpected giggle escaped him, echoing off the tiles. It was a light, airy sound that felt foreign in his own throat.
“Let me help, big boy,” Mark murmured, his voice pitched into something sweet and teasing. His soapy hands slid around Ben’s waist, smoothing over the hard, defined ridges of his abs.
He felt Ben’s stomach muscles contract under his palms, a tight, involuntary flinch. Mark leaned in, kissing the wet skin between Ben’s shoulder blades. He could taste the clean water and the faint, residual sweat.
His hands moved in slow, lathering circles. “You’re so damn sexy, babe,” Mark whispered against his skin, the words a hot puff of air in the steam.
Ben went utterly still. The only movement was the water pounding his skin. Then, with a sudden, fluid pivot, he turned.
His eyes were dark pools in the steam, stripped of their usual sarcasm. They held a raw, unprocessed hunger that made Mark’s breath catch. Before Mark could speak, Ben’s strong hands were on him.
He bent slightly, his arms hooking under Mark’s thighs, and lifted him clean off the wet tiles. Mark gasped, a sharp intake of steam and surprise. Ben held him easily, his hands planted firmly on the curves of Mark’s ass, fingers splaying possessively.
The world tilted. Mark instinctively wrapped his legs around Ben’s waist, clinging to his shoulders. A squeal burst from him, part shock, part pure delight. He looked down into Ben’s upturned face and laughed, the sound bouncing off the shower walls.
He leaned in and kissed him, a hard, smiling kiss full of teeth and triumph. When he broke away, he grinned, brushing his nose against Ben’s. “Okay,” Mark breathed, his voice bright with victory. “Now Mr. Muscles is into me.”
Ben’s only answer was a low groan. He carried Mark back, two steps, until Mark’s spine met the cool, slick tiles. He pinned him there, the water cascading over both of them.
The water was a deafening curtain, hot and relentless. It hammered the top of Ben’s head, streamed over the rigid line of his jaw, and soaked into the thin cotton of the dress still clinging to Mark’s body. Ben’s forearms were bars on either side of Mark’s head, caging him against the tile. His breath came in sharp, visible puffs in the steam.
“You’re still wearing the damn dress,” Ben muttered, his voice barely audible over the spray. His eyes flicked down, then back up, a storm of confusion and want.
“You put it on me,” Mark shot back, his hands finding Ben’s hips. His fingers dug into the wet skin there. “Sort of.”
Ben leaned in, his mouth hovering a breath from Mark’s. The heat was more than the water. It was in the scant millimeter of air between them, charged and trembling. “I didn’t plan any of this.”
“Who does?” Mark said, and then he closed the distance.
He kissed him deeply, a claiming, wet slide of lips and tongue that tasted of shower water and the lingering ghost of cheap beer from the barbecue. It was an answer and a challenge. Ben met it, his body melting forward, pinning Mark completely. His hands slid from the tile to tangle in the wet, blonde hair.
When he finally pulled back for air, his forehead rested against Mark’s. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide in the steam. A ragged, disbelieving laugh escaped him.
“Damn, Mia,” Ben breathed, the name a sacrilege and a surrender on his lips. His thumb traced the outline of Mark’s swollen lower lip. “You’re such a slut.”
“You’re such a slut.”
The word didn’t land like an insult. It hung in the steam between them, a fact, a benediction. Mark felt it settle in his bones, a strange and welcome warmth. He grinned, a flash of white in the damp gloom.
“Your slut,” he corrected, his voice a low purr that vibrated against Ben’s chest.
He saw the surrender in Ben’s eyes then, a final lock tumbling open. All the clever sarcasm, the academic remove, dissolved in the pounding water. What remained was pure, uncomplicated need. Ben’s hands slid from Mark’s hair, down his neck, over the soaked fabric clinging to his shoulders. He gripped the neckline of the dress.
With a sharp, grunting pull, he ripped it open. The sound was a dull tear, lost under the shower’s roar. The wet cotton fell away, peeling from Mark’s skin like a second skin shed.
Ben’s gaze burned a trail down his body. The steam curled around them, intimate and obscuring. His calloused palms smoothed over Mark’s ribs, his waist, coming to rest on the pronounced curve of his hips. His grip was absolute.
He lifted Mark higher against the tiles, adjusting his stance. The cold ceramic bit into Mark’s back, a sharp contrast to the scalding water and Ben’s furnace-like heat. Mark wrapped his legs tighter, anchoring himself. His breath hitched. This was the cliff edge again, the thrilling, terrifying drop.
Ben guided himself, his expression fierce with concentration. There was no gentle question this time, no trembling pause. There was only the slow, insistent pressure, the devastating fullness as he pushed into the tight, willing heat.
He entered her.
A choked, guttural sound was torn from both of them at once. Mark’s head fell back against the tile with a dull thunk. The water rushed into his open mouth, making him sputter. The feeling was everywhere, a consuming stretch that blurred all lines.
Ben began to move, a deep, rolling rhythm born of the shower’s pulse. Each thrust was amplified by the slickness between them, by the water cascading over their joined forms. Mark clutched at Ben’s slick shoulders, fingernails scraping for purchase.
“Ben,” he gasped, the name a broken thing.
Ben’s mouth found his, swallowing the sound. The kiss was messy, water-logged, desperate. It tasted of exhaustion and ownership. Ben’s hips pistoned, driving them both into the tile with a force that promised bruises. The world narrowed to the slap of wet skin, the metallic smell of the shower spray, the searing point of connection where they were fused.
Mark’s pleasure built not as a wave, but as a pressure cooker scream. It was too much, too soon after the last time. His body clenched, a vise tightening around Ben, pulling a ragged roar from his throat. The release when it came was a short-circuit, a blinding white snap that left his limbs buzzing and useless.
Ben followed, his rhythm fracturing into frantic, shallow drives. He buried his face in the hollow of Mark’s throat, his cry a hot, damp vibration against the skin. He shuddered through it, held up only by the wall and the body in his arms.
Slowly, the world seeped back in. The shower’s roar. The ache in Mark’s back. The heavy, boneless weight of Ben leaning against him, breathing hard into his neck. Ben’s grip loosened. Mark’s legs unwound, his feet finding the slick floor, trembling.
They stood there, propped up, water beating down on their bowed heads. The torn dress was a soggy banner around Mark’s waist. Ben finally pushed back, just enough to look at him. Water streamed down his face like tears.
He didn’t speak. He just reached past Mark and turned the shower knob. The torrent died with a shuddering groan. The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the drip-drip from the showerhead and their ragged breathing.
In the quiet, the facts were loud. The torn dress. The blooming marks on pale skin. The protein tub on the bedroom dresser, a cheap plastic monument to all of this.
Ben stepped out first, grabbing a towel without looking back. He wrapped it around his waist and left, the bathroom door swinging shut behind him, leaving Mark alone in the dripping cubicle.
Mark stared at the fogged glass, at his own blurred reflection. He touched the tender skin where Ben’s mouth had been. A slow, shaky smile spread across his face. He had the money. He had the power. He had his friend.
He turned the cold knob on, full blast. The icy needles shocked a gasp from him, sharp and clean. It felt like punishment. It felt like a baptism.
It felt like a baptism. The cold water shocked his system, scrubbing away the lingering phantom sensations until his skin was numb and puckered. He turned it off and stood dripping in the sudden, ringing silence, listening for any sound from the bedroom.
There was only the heavy quiet of exhaustion. He stepped out, peeling the ruined dress from his hips and letting it fall with a wet slap to the tiles. He toweled himself roughly, the coarse fabric a welcome abrasion, and wrapped it around his chest.
He pushed the bathroom door open. Ben was a dark shape under the twisted sheets, facing the wall. The cracked mirror reflected a slice of the scene: one discarded towel on the floor, the protein tub standing sentinel on the dresser. Mark walked to his own room, the floorboards cool under his feet.
He returned a minute later, wearing only a pair of clean boxer shorts. He didn’t hesitate. He lifted the edge of Ben’s sheets and slid in behind him. The mattress groaned. Ben stiffened immediately.
“Go to your own bed, Mark.” Ben’s voice was muffled by the pillow.
“It’s cold over there,” Mark said, his voice light. He settled onto the pillow, his damp hair soaking into the cotton. He left a careful inch of space between his back and Ben’s.
“Tough.” Ben didn’t turn. “You’ve got your own.”
“Yours is better.” Mark grinned at the ceiling, tracing a water stain with his eyes. “And I’m already here. Moving would require effort.”
Ben let out a long, exasperated breath that shuddered through the mattress. He didn’t speak again. The tension in his shoulders slowly began to soften, worn down by sheer bodily fatigue. The heat from his body radiated across the narrow gap, a tangible pull.
Mark waited. He counted Ben’s breaths, listening as they deepened and slowed. When he was certain Ben was asleep or nearly there, he carefully rolled over. He closed the final inch, pressing his front to Ben’s broad back. He slid an arm over Ben’s waist, his hand splaying flat against the solid plane of his stomach.
Ben didn’t wake. He made a low, unconscious sound in his throat and shifted back, his body curling minutely into the contact. Mark buried his nose between Ben’s shoulder blades, inhaling the clean scent of soap and sleep. A profound, unsettling rightness settled over him.
He woke to gray dawn and an empty bed. The space beside him was cool. He could hear the low murmur of the TV in the living room. He stretched, his body cataloging a dozen new aches and pleasant sorenesses. He pulled on Ben’s discarded rugby hoodie from the floor, the fabric swallowing him, and padded out.
Ben was on the couch, a textbook open but ignored on his lap, staring at a sports highlight reel with no sound. Two mugs of coffee steamed on the table. He didn’t look over as Mark entered.
“You made coffee,” Mark said, taking the mug without asking. He curled into the far end of the sofa, tucking his feet beneath him.
“I made me coffee,” Ben corrected, his eyes still on the screen. “You invading my bed doesn’t entitle you to my caffeine.”
“Sure it does.” Mark took a sip. It was bitter and perfect. “It’s a proximity rule. Roommate law.”
Ben finally glanced at him, his gaze lingering on the oversized hoodie. A muscle twitched in his jaw. “You look ridiculous.”
“I look comfortable.” Mark took another long drink. “So. What’s the plan for today, ‘Brains’?”
“The plan,” Ben said, snapping the textbook shut, “is to pretend last night was a weird dream. The plan is to go to class. The plan is to not… do whatever the hell that was again.”
“Sounded like a pretty boring plan.” Mark swung his feet down and stood, placing his empty mug on the table. He walked around behind the couch and leaned over the back, his face inches from Ben’s ear. “My plan’s better.”
Ben turned his head, their noses almost brushing. His eyes were guarded, tired. “Yeah? What’s your brilliant plan, Hammer?”
Mark’s hand snaked down between the couch back and Ben’s shoulder. His fingers, quick and sure, found the waistband of Ben’s sweatpants and slipped inside. Ben inhaled sharply, his textbook tumbling to the floor.
“My plan,” Mark whispered, his breath hot against Ben’s cheek, his hand moving with a practiced, claiming rhythm that made Ben’s eyes flutter shut, “involves significantly less clothing.”
Ben’s head fell back against the couch, a low groan escaping him. His hands came up, gripping the cushion on either side of his hips. “We can’t… the door’s not locked…”
“So lock it,” Mark said, his voice a low challenge. He didn’t stop his movements.
With a frustrated growl, Ben surged up from the couch, dislodging Mark’s hand. He stalked to the apartment door, twisted the deadbolt with a definitive click, and turned. His chest heaved. The look he gave Mark was pure, undiluted conflict—a war between want and some last crumbling wall of principle.
He crossed the room in three long strides. Before Mark could react, Ben’s hands were on him, spinning him around with a rough, decisive motion. He pushed Mark forward, bending him over the arm of the worn sofa. The coarse fabric scratched against Mark’s bare thighs below the hoodie.
“You think this is a game?” Ben’s voice was gravel, close to his ear. One hand pressed firmly between Mark’s shoulder blades, holding him down. The other hand slid down, palming the curve of his ass through the thin boxers with a possessiveness that stole Mark’s breath.
“Isn’t it?” Mark managed to gasp, the words muffled by the cushion.
Ben’s answer was sudden and sharp. His hand came down hard on Mark’s backside, a crisp, stinging slap that echoed in the quiet room. The pain was bright, immediate, a shock that lit up his nerves. Mark cried out, more in surprise than hurt, his fingers clawing at the sofa fabric.
He spanked her again. And again. Not in rage, but with a fierce, focused intensity, each strike landing on the sensitive flesh with a blunt, resonant sound. The sensation built, a hot, throbbing ache that blurred into a strange, shameful current of pleasure. Mark’s protests died in his throat, morphuring into choked, helpless sounds.
The rhythm was punishing, relentless. With each impact, Mark felt a piece of his old self detach and float away. He was being reshaped, stamped, claimed in the most primitive way. His body arched, not in escape, but in a desperate, wordless plea for more.
Ben’s hand stilled, resting hot and heavy on the burning skin. His breathing was ragged. He leaned down, his lips against the shell of Mark’s ear.
“Whose game is it?” Ben whispered, the question a raw vibration.
Mark turned his head, his cheek pressed against the rough sofa. He looked up, his vision swimming. A slow, shaky smile touched his lips. “Yours,” he breathed. “It’s always been yours.”
For a heartbeat, Ben was motionless. Then the hand on Mark’s back slid around his hip, fingers hooking into the waistband of his boxers and yanking them down. Ben’s own sweatpants were shoved out of the way. There was no finesse, no pause. He entered him in one rough, driving motion, a completion that was less about pleasure and more about confirmation.
Mark cried out, a full-throated sound of surrender that was swallowed by the room. Ben set a brutal, pounding pace, each thrust jolting Mark forward into the sofa arm, the earlier sting merging with the deep, filling pressure. Ben’s hand fisted in the hoodie at the nape of Mark’s neck, holding him in place.
It was over quickly, a frantic, graceless release. Ben slumped over him, his weight a crushing comfort, his breath hot against Mark’s neck. They stayed there, locked together, breathing in the dust and sweat smell of the old couch.
When Ben finally pulled away, the air felt cold. He straightened his clothes without a word and walked to the kitchen, turning on the tap. Mark slowly pushed himself up, his body singing with a hundred new messages. He pulled his boxers up, wincing at the tender heat.
Ben returned with a glass of water. He held it out, not meeting Mark’s eyes. Mark took it and drank, the water impossibly cold and good.
“We have that pharmacokinetics tutorial at eleven,” Ben said, his voice flat, clinical. He was looking at the wall above Mark’s head. “Don’t be late.”
He turned and walked back to his bedroom, closing the door softly behind him. Mark stood alone in the living room, the silence buzzing. He finished the water, placed the glass gently on the table beside his empty mug. He touched the skin over his backside, the ache a persistent, thrilling truth.
He walked to the cracked mirror in the hallway. The person looking back was flushed, hair a mess, wearing a stolen hoodie that drowned them. The eyes, though. The eyes were calm. Certain. He traced his own lower lip with a finger.
He had the money. The check had cleared last week. He had the power, a strange, slippery thing born from surrender. And he had his friend, who was now something else entirely.
The tutorial was at eleven. He had time. He went to his room, leaving Ben’s door closed. He began to dress, choosing his clothes with a new, deliberate care.