Chapter 5: The Shower
The fire had burned down to glowing embers, and their second whiskey was gone. The silence between them had shifted from tense to thick, a live wire humming with everything they weren’t saying. Craig’s hand was still in Daniel’s hair, a grounding point of contact.
“C’mon,” Craig said finally, his voice a low rumble. He stood, pulling Daniel up with him, their bodies aligning for a brief, dizzying moment. “Let me show you the rest of the place.”
Daniel followed him, his socked feet silent on the polished hardwood of the hallway. They passed a closed door—Timmy’s room, he assumed—and another that was ajar, revealing a sparse home office with a desk and a glaring computer monitor. At the end of the hall, Craig pushed open a door.
“Did the reno last winter,” Craig said, flicking a switch.
Light flooded a space that felt like it belonged to a different house altogether. Daniel blinked. It was a master bedroom, but one of stark, almost monastic simplicity. A king-sized bed with a plain navy duvet, no headboard. Two nightstands. A dresser. And on the far wall, another door, standing open.
“Bathroom’s through there,” Craig said, a note of something like pride, or anxiety, in his tone. He led the way.
Daniel stepped over the threshold and stopped. The bathroom was cavernous, a sanctuary of dark oak and brushed brass. The air smelled faintly of cedar and old leather, undercut by the clean scent of new grout. A massive, freestanding claw-foot tub dominated one corner. But it was the shower that drew his eye. It was a tiled cubicle, but one without a door, an open recess in the wall. It was enormous. The kind of shower built for utility, not luxury, but the scale of it was decadent. Daniel could easily imagine four men of Craig’s broad, work-hardened size fitting in there without ever touching.
“Jesus,” Daniel breathed.
“Got sick of banging my elbows in the old one,” Craig said, leaning against the vanity. He was watching Daniel’s reaction closely. “Needed something that fit.”
The statement hung there, layered. Daniel walked to the entrance of the shower, running his fingers over the smooth, slate-grey tile. The ceiling was high, with a rainfall showerhead the size of a dinner plate. “It’s incredible.”
“Yeah.” Craig pushed off the vanity. He moved into Daniel’s space, his body a solid warmth at his back. “Dinner was… tense.”
They’d eaten Chinese takeout at the kitchen island, the cardboard containers between them like a barrier. The conversation had been stilted, skipping from the weather to baseball, anywhere but the elephant in the room. Daniel had felt sixteen again, tongue-tied in front of his best friend’s imposing dad.
“A bit,” Daniel admitted.
“Think we need to wash the nervous off.” Craig’s hands settled on Daniel’s hips, his thumbs hooking into the belt loops of his jeans. “Shower with me.”
It wasn’t really a question. A thrill, sharp and electric, shot down Daniel’s spine. He nodded, unable to speak.
Craig worked efficiently, his builder’s hands making quick work of buttons and zippers. Clothes pooled on the oak floor—Daniel’s henley, his jeans, Craig’s black t-shirt. The air was cool on Daniel’s skin, raising goosebumps. Craig reached into the shower and turned the dial. Water roared, then hissed, and a cloud of steam began to billow out, fogging the mirror above the vanity.
He pulled Daniel into the steam.
The heat was instantaneous, enveloping. Water sheeted from the wide head above, drenching them both. Daniel gasped, his hair plastered to his forehead. Craig stood for a moment, head tipped back, letting the water sluice over his face, his chest, the greying hair there darkening and clinging to his skin.
Then he reached for a bar of soap. It smelled of plain, unscented oatmeal. He lathered his hands slowly, deliberately, his eyes locked on Daniel’s.
“Turn around,” Craig said, his voice almost lost in the rush of water.
Daniel obeyed, presenting his back. Craig’s soapy hands landed on his shoulders, kneading the tense muscles there. He worked down Daniel’s spine, each vertebrae a point of focused pressure, then over the swell of his ass. His touch was thorough, methodical. Not yet sexual, but profoundly intimate. Washing him. Claiming him. Daniel braced his forearms against the cool tile, his head bowed, water streaming down his neck.
“Other side,” Craig murmured, turning him back.
Now Daniel was facing him, exposed under the spray and Craig’s gaze. Craig soaped his chest, his calloused palms rough over Daniel’s nipples, circling until they peaked into tight, sensitive buds. Daniel hissed, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. A ghost of a smile touched Craig’s mouth. He worked lower, over Daniel’s stomach, the trail of hair leading down. He took Daniel’s cock in his soap-slick hand, and Daniel’s knees nearly buckled. Craig stroked him slowly, from root to tip, spreading the lather, his thumb swiping over the head with a pressure that was maddening.
“My turn,” Daniel managed to say, his voice raw.
Craig handed him the soap. Daniel’s hands trembled as he lathered them. He started on Craig’s chest, mapping the territory he’d only glimpsed. The muscles were dense, layered from decades of labour. His fingers traced old scars—a pale line along a rib, a puckered mark on a shoulder. He soaped the thick forest of hair, the flat nipples, the powerful sweep of Craig’s pectorals. He washed the strong column of Craig’s neck, the stubborn jaw. He dropped to his knees on the shower floor, the water beating on his back, and washed Craig’s thick thighs, his calves, the feet planted wide.
When his soapy hand closed around Craig’s cock, Craig let out a choked sound. It was heavy, full, already leaking. Daniel looked up, water and steam blurring his vision. Craig was staring down at him, his expression shattered, all his gruff control gone.
In one swift motion, Craig pulled him up, spun him, and pinned him against the tile. The shock of the cold surface on his back made Daniel gasp. Craig’s body was a furnace against his front, water streaming between them.
“Stay there,” Craig growled.
Then he was sinking, dropping to his knees on the hard floor. His hands spread Daniel’s ass, and his mouth, hot and wet and demanding, was on him. Not on his cock, but lower. His tongue, broad and insistent, pressed against him, licking through the soap, seeking entry. Daniel cried out, a sharp, broken sound that echoed off the tiles. His fingers scrabbled against the wall. The sensation was overwhelming—the heat of the water, the steam choking the air, the shocking, intimate violation of Craig’s tongue pressing inside him. It was crude and profound and it unraveled him completely.
Craig didn’t stop. He worked him open with his tongue, ruthless and dedicated, until Daniel was shaking, pleading wordlessly into the steam.
Then Craig stood. He was breathing hard. He hooked his hands under Daniel’s thighs and lifted him as if he weighed nothing, pressing him back against the wall. Daniel’s legs wrapped around Craig’s waist on instinct.
“Look at me,” Craig commanded.
Daniel forced his eyes open. Craig’s face was flushed, water beading on his eyelashes. He was holding himself, the broad head of his cock pressing against Daniel’s entrance, still loose and wet from his mouth.
“This what you want?” Craig’s voice was gravel.
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I want it. I want you.”
Craig pushed in. The water masked the initial sting, the burn, but not the immense, stretching fullness. Daniel’s gasp was swallowed by the humid air. Craig filled him in one smooth, relentless thrust, burying himself to the hilt. He held there, his body trembling with the effort of control, his forehead pressed to Daniel’s.
“Okay?” he rasped.
Daniel could only nod, clutching at Craig’s shoulders.
Craig began to move. It wasn’t gentle. It was deep, punishing strokes that drove the air from Daniel’s lungs, that slapped their wet skin together in a rhythm louder than the falling water. Each thrust jarred Daniel against the tile, but the discomfort was a distant thing, secondary to the sensation of being utterly claimed, used, seen. Craig fucked him with a single-minded intensity, his eyes open, watching every flicker of pleasure and pain on Daniel’s face.
The steam billowed around them, a private cloud. Daniel’s cries were short, punched-out things. He came first, untouched, his release striping Craig’s stomach and washing away in an instant under the torrent. The clenching of his body dragged a ragged groan from Craig, who buried his face in Daniel’s neck, his movements becoming erratic, frantic, before he stilled, pulsing deep inside him.
The water began to run cool.
Craig didn’t let him go. He kept Daniel pinned against the wall, his own weight sagging slightly, his breath hot and ragged against Daniel’s skin. The only sounds were the hiss of the shower and their slowing breaths.
Slowly, carefully, Craig lowered him until his feet found the slick floor. Daniel’s legs trembled, threatening to give way. Craig held him up, one arm around his waist, and reached out to turn off the water.
The sudden silence was deafening. Drips echoed in the drain.
Craig reached for a large, clean towel from a heated rail and wrapped it around Daniel, rubbing warmth back into his arms. He took another for himself. They stood there in the foggy chamber, shrouded in terrycloth and the aftermath.
Craig wiped a clear streak on the fogged mirror. Daniel’s reflection looked back—flushed, unshaven, eyes wide and dark. Behind him, Craig’s reflection was a blurry giant, a ghost in the steam of his own sanctuary.
“Bed,” Craig said, his voice utterly exhausted. It wasn’t an invitation. It was a statement of fact, the next necessary step. He took Daniel’s hand, his grip firm, and led him out of the bathroom, away from the evidence, toward the quiet, waiting dark of the bedroom.