Chapter 14: Slippery When Wet
The steam from the shower was thick enough to taste, a damp fog that clung to the frosted glass doors and made the world beyond them a soft, grey mystery. The roar of the water was a private universe. Under the scalding spray, Tim pressed Jon back against the cool, wet tiles, his body a feverish contrast against Jon’s.
Jon’s hands were on Tim’s hips, his head tipped back, water coursing through his dark hair and down his closed eyelids. Tim’s own hair, a wet, dark curtain, stuck to his shoulders. His breasts, full and heavy, pressed against Jon’s chest, the nipples peaked into tight, dark buds from the heat and the proximity. The water sluiced over them, over the generous curve of Tim’s belly, over the thatch of hair between his legs where his cunt, perpetually swollen and puffy, was pressed flush against Jon’s thigh.
“You know,” Tim murmured, his voice a low, playful rasp near Jon’s ear as he ground himself slowly, “they say this is a great way to save on the water bill. Two birds, one stone… or should I say, two lovebirds, getting soaked.”
Jon’s eyes flew open. He groaned, a sound of profound, affectionate suffering. “Tim, that was atrocious.”
“Just trying to make a splash,” Tim grinned, his hips rolling.
Jon retaliated. He ducked his head and captured one of Tim’s nipples in his mouth, sucking hard, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak. Tim cried out, a sharp, beautiful sound that echoed off the tiles. His back arched, shoving his breast deeper into Jon’s mouth. At the same time, Jon’s hand slid from his hip, fingers slipping through the soaked, curly hair to find his slit. He was already so wet it was difficult to tell where the shower ended and Tim began. Jon pushed two fingers inside him, curling them, and Tim’s knees buckled.
“Fuck! Jon, please—”
“Please what?” Jon mumbled against his breast, his fingers pumping slowly, mercilessly.
“I need your cock. Right now. Please.”
Jon withdrew his fingers, using both hands to hoist Tim up. Tim wrapped his legs around Jon’s waist, the position spreading him wide, his puffy lips glistening and exposed. Jon guided himself, his cockhead nudging against Tim’s entrance. He looked into Tim’s eyes, water droplets clinging to his lashes.
“Tell me another terrible pun and I’ll make you wait,” Jon said, but his voice was trembling with want.
Tim grinned, breathless. “I’m all washed up for ideas.”
Jon slammed up into him.
The force of it drove the air from Tim’s lungs in a punched-out moan. Jon filled him in one deep, unyielding stroke, the hot water cascading over their joined bodies. It was different from the couch—rawer, more primal, with the slick assist of the water and the precarious, thrilling grip of their bodies.
“Oh god, yes, right there,” Tim chanted, his head falling back. “Fuck me, Jon, fuck me hard.”
Jon obeyed. He fucked up into him, hard and fast, his hips pistoning, his grip on Tim’s ass ruthless. The sound was obscene—a wet, rhythmic slap of skin, punctuated by their ragged breaths and the constant drone of the shower. Soapy water sloshed over the edge of the tub onto the floor. Tim’s cries escalated from moans to shameless, echoing screams as Jon hit a spot deep inside him that scattered his thoughts.
“You feel—ah!—you feel so fucking good,” Jon grunted, his face buried in Tim’s neck. “So tight and hot, god, Tim.”
Tim could only claw at Jon’s back, his climax coiling, swift and inevitable. “I’m gonna come, Jon, I’m gonna—”
“Come,” Jon ordered, biting his shoulder. “Come all over my cock.”
The command shattered him. Tim came with a scream that felt like it tore his throat, his cunt clenching violently around Jon’s thrusting length. The convulsions pulled Jon over the edge seconds later; he stilled, buried to the hilt, and groaned as he emptied himself deep inside Tim, his own body shaking with the force of it.
They stayed like that, trembling, as the water began to run cool.
For the rest of the two weeks, Jon and Tim couldn’t stop fucking. It was a hunger that went beyond physical need; it was a language, the only way to speak the immensity of what had been unlocked. They kissed and giggled and moaned and held onto each other with a deep, reverent love that flavored every moment.
Funnily enough, the sex was what made Tim come out of his shell. The constant, affirming touch, the worship of Jon’s hands and mouth on every part of him he’d been taught to hide, it acted like a defibrillator on his dormant personality. The vibrant man Jon remembered began to spark back to life, not in flashes, but in a steady, growing glow.
One afternoon, Jon was reading a statement aloud, his voice dry and academic. Tim was bent over the back of the armchair, his soft green skirt pooled around his waist, his magnificent ass in the air as Jon moved slowly behind him, sheathed deep in his dripping cunt.
“The entity manifested as a pervasive sense of being watched from within the wallpaper patterns,” Jon read, his breath hitching slightly as Tim clenched around him.
Tim giggled, a helpless, breathy sound. “Maybe it was just shy. Wanted a peek.” He pushed back against Jon, taking him deeper. “Bet it’s jealous right now.”
Jon snorted, losing his place in the document. “You’re impossible.” He dropped the paper, gripping Tim’s hips to pull him back onto his cock with more force, making Tim yelp with pleasure.
They squabbled lovingly over which movie to watch one evening, a debate about gritty noir versus historical drama that took place entirely with Tim straddling Jon’s lap on the sofa, riding him in a slow, grinding rhythm that made coherent argument difficult.
“The cinematography—oh, Tim, just like that—the cinematography is objectively superior in The Third Man,” Jon managed, his hands gripping Tim’s bouncing thighs.
“But the costumes, Jon,” Tim sighed, sinking down onto him with a delicious slowness that made Jon’s eyes roll back. “All those gorgeous waistcoats… imagine me in a waistcoat… nothing else…”
Jon capitulated immediately. “Fine. Put on the bloody costumes.”
But the most telling change was the jokes. Tim started cracking really bad dad jokes at the most inopportune, intimate moments. One night, in bed, with Tim on his back, his legs spread wide and hooked over Jon’s shoulders as Jon thrust into him with deep, steady strokes, Tim let out a soft, contented sigh.
“You know,” Tim said, his voice shaky with each drive of Jon’s hips, “they call this position… the archaeologist.”
Jon paused, sweat dripping from his brow onto Tim’s chest. “What?”
“Because you’re… uncovering… ancient treasures,” Tim wheezed, then burst into giggles that made his cunt flutter wildly around Jon’s cock.
Jon stared at him, torn between exasperation and overwhelming love. He dropped Tim’s legs, leaned forward, and kissed him soundly to shut him up, never stopping the relentless, loving rhythm of his hips. “You’re terrible,” he whispered against his lips.
“You’re terrible,” Tim whispered back, pulling him closer.
It was cozy and stupid and life, for those fourteen days, was perfect. The ghost of Eliza, Bart, and Nick retreated to a distant, foggy shore. The looming shape of the Institute was just a building. The file from Elias was a forgotten nightmare in a locked drawer. In the warm, book-scented confines of Jon’s apartment, they built a fortress out of skin and laughter and whispered vows, and for a little while, it was utterly impregnable. The outside world waited, patient and cold, but inside, they had everything.