Page 140 of Silver Sweet
“Fuck,” I moan into a heavy grunt, coming with a hard spasm forward. I can immediately tell he can’t take it. So I pull out so fast. Tom almost chokes.
He’s coughing and spitting into the shower drain.Shit.I squat and put a hand to his back. “You okay? Tom?”
He spits harsher.
Damn.I rub between his shoulder blades.
Tom is knelt on one knee, and he presses his forehead to the one that’s bent. “Don’t laugh.”
My eyes darken on him. “You serious?”
He says nothing. Which is a resoundingyes.I pinch his chin, turning his face so he sees my confusion. “Why the fuck would I laugh at you?”
He takes a slow breath. “You’re right, it’s not funny. It’s only the saddest thing in the world that you can swallow, but I can’t.”
“Wow, we found something you’re terrible at. Boo fucking hoo.”
Tom fights a smile. “I’m notterrible. Just barely average.”
“No, you suck.”
“Shut up.” He shoves my arm, smiling more. Less embarrassed.
I seize his wrist, pulling him to his feet with me. “You good?” My stomach twists when he abruptly exits the shower. “Tom?”
He returns with the bottle of face wash we left behind. “Other than you trying to kill me with your dick, yeah.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Yeah, that was definitely my intention.” I nod a few times, seeing his smile stretch higher. “Looks like I failed. You’re fucking alive.Whoa.” I widen my eyes.
He grins. “You can try to perform murder by blow job again. I’ll allow it.”
“Thanks for the permission.” I tilt my head to keep hold of his gaze. “Seriously though, you good? Because if that was too much?—”
“It wasn’t,” he cuts in fast. “Dude, I am not that fragile. You’re just fucking massive.” He’s not small himself. I barely have bragging rights here.
I cup his jaw. “I’m just making sure I don’t tear through your limits.”
“I have no limits.”
“If that were true, we wouldn’t be playing red light, green light.”
He shrugs. “Fine. I havesomelimits, and I’d tell you if you’re near them. You didn’t tiptoe close. So relax.”
I try not to contemplate what Charlie said. Maybe he doesn’t know his brother as well as he thinks. Maybe Tom isn’t too prideful to speak up if something went too far for him.
I kiss him more gently, then I turn on the shower. Warm water pours like a rainstorm over our heads, and red LED lights switch on. I give him a look as we’re suddenly bathed in a crimson color. “What the fuck?”
Tom laughs. “Eliot must’ve taken a shower last. He prefers the red.” He taps a screen on the wall. The showerhead lights change to a softer orange, then a turquoise blue.
“I’m sorry—do you haveraveswhile you’re shampooing your hair? What is the point of this?”
“Dude, it’s fun. And I can make it change color every half-second if you want the rave feel.” He does do that. He also turns on our shared rock playlist we made together, and while I lather his Dior shower gel on his body, he tries to scrub the red pen off my jaw. We point out the beats in The Beatles’ song “Oh! Darling” that we’re digging, and neither of us rush through the shower—not when we start creating more music together under the swirling vapor and hot water.
That’s how the next week goes.
Between heavy groans, stinging lips, and eye-rolling orgasms in his bedroom, bathroom, and the private rehearsal studio, we arrange and record three songs in record speed. Tom is revving me in every fucking way. I clock in maybe two hours of sleep here and there.
It’s all I can think about.
