Page 51 of Choke Up

Gabe bites his lip, hiding some reaction or emotion that tries to pull at his expression. I swear to fuck, he better not be trying to laugh at me.

"Can I help?"

My brain cells rattle around for a few seconds. "What?"

"I hurt you. I want to make it better."

"But you said?—"

"This isn't about me," he says, looming over me and tucking a lock of hair behind my ear. "It's not sexual." His breath fans over my face, still minty from his toothpaste. I want to laugh at how sincere he looks, because this feels ridiculous.

Now it's my turn to gape like a fish, not sure how to respond. I'm mortified and absolutely do not want him to apply cream to my ass, but I'm also deluded just enough to think that any excuse to get his hands on me might not be a bad one.

He doesn't wait for me to finalize my decision, washing his hands before turning me to face the sink. My cock fills the moment he puts his hands at my waist and man-handles me. I watch him in the mirror instead of myself, not wanting to see myself in all my flustered, sweaty, blotchy glory. His fingertips tease over the waistband of my sleep shorts before peeling them down over my ass. I shiver at the way his hands skim over my hip.

"I'm sorry," he whispers into the shell of my ear, and then the nape of my hair, right before inhaling the skin there. He slowly lowers himself to his knees. "I'm sorry,” he whispers again, this time against my hip, against both ass cheeks. I fall forward on my arms when he spreads me open, his warm breath caressing my cleft as he whispers his apologies there, too. His lips press against my puckered hole. "I'm so sorry," he says one last time, before kissing me again, gently lapping at my hole with his lips and tongue until I'm shaking.

He pulls away, replacing his mouth with the cool blunt end of his finger, rubbing the lidocaine cream around the outside of the rim. For a few moments, I think he's teasing me, flirting with my hole but not making a real attempt at breaching it. I glance toward the mirror and see the way his forehead is resting against the arm that is holding me spread open. He turns his head, meeting my eyes, and I can see the trepidation there. The sorrow. The horror that he hurt me. The fear that he could again.

"It's okay," I whisper, pushing back lightly against his hand. I hiss when the very tip of his thick finger pushes through the first ring of muscle, and he freezes, worried eyes darting back up to mine. "It's okay," I repeat. "It's… it feels nice."

His finger is much thicker than mine, so there's quite a bit more stretch involved, but Gabe takes it slow. He alternates between watching his finger and checking in with me, only moving deeper when I nod and encourage him to. He adds a bit more of the medicine when he's got me opened up enough. There's a slight twinge of pain that dissipates into a dull burn, but the pleasure of him touching me far outweighs any discomfort. I let him go much deeper than the actual injury, forgetting for a moment that this is meant to be caring and clinical. When his finger brushes over my prostate, I can't contain the small cry of pleasure.

Heat engulfs me, my already flushed skin turning a deep red. The blush extends down my neck to my chest. I meet his eyes apologetically. "You should stop now if you don't want me to?—"

Gabe bites his lip thoughtfully, keeping his eyes locked on mine as he moves his finger inside me, caressing that same spot again. He presses his mouth to my hip when a deep moan escapes me, squeezing his eyes closed, almost as if he's trying to keep himself quiet, when I'm the one that made the noise. It's impossible not to, though. Not when he's putting pressure on my prostate the way he is, repeatedly stroking over it. I turn the water on in the sink and bury my face in my arm to drown out my uncontrollable moans as Gabe gently but thoroughly fucks me with his finger.

Neither one of us so much as touches my cock, but within a few short minutes, a full tremor racks through me. My cock erupts, painting the counter in ropes of white. Before the post orgasm awareness settles in, Gabe pulls my shorts back up and stands behind me, supporting my weight while I get my bearings.

He presses a gentle kiss to the side of my head. "I'll clean up," he says, effectively sending me on my way.

Every night for the next two weeks, he comes to me, soothing the ache of his mistake and bringing me to orgasm with just one finger. He never touches my cock, never kisses me on the mouth, and he never even acknowledges the massive straining erection he leaves with every night. We don't talk about it at all. The naughty angel on my shoulder thinks about mentioning the other times of day I have to apply the medicine, but I'm afraid to push too much. His gentle, caring touches have me falling deeper than ever before, all my anger forgotten.

CHAPTER 20

GABE

The door clicks shut behind me, and I tiptoe to the bathroom. It was risky going into Ellis' room while Elliot was still up, working on a paper he wants to finish before our first series this weekend. I should be doing the same, but I couldn't bear to have Ellis take care of himself before he goes to bed. I've made it my job, and I take it very seriously.

"Couldn't sleep?"

I jump at the sound of Elliot’s voice, and he snickers. Then he sees the raging boner trying to bust a hole through my pajama bottoms, and sputters on the sip of water he just took.

"You, uh, need the bathroom?" He laughs knowingly and shakes his head. It wouldn't be the first time he's seen me on my way to take a shower after watching porn or something. Thank fuck he didn't see me come out of his brother's room, so nothing seems out of the ordinary.

"I'm headed to bed. You want to run with me in the morning?"

"Yeah, I'm in."

"Five A.M. sharp," he reminds me, like I haven't been going on morning runs with him since we were in middle school.

"Yeah, yeah. Masochist," I grumble as I close the bathroom door behind me and start the shower.

Honestly, if he weren't so dedicated, I'd never have gotten this far. Huntston only wanted me because of him. Elliot broke records and led our high school to three consecutive national championships, and he insisted that we're a package deal. Everything I have is because of him. My scholarship, attending a prestigious university like Huntston, the opportunity to pull myself out of the situation I grew up in—it's all because of Elliot.

And here I am, nurturing an unhealthy obsession for his twin brother. Jesus. I just had two fingers planted deep inside Ellis' ass, milking his prostate until he cried into his pillow. Two fingers I now have to force myself to put under the water, because I don't want to wash away the evidence.

I'm the real masochist here. And completely full of shit, telling myself and Ellis that I'm just helping. Yes, most of me is focused on righting a major wrong. I need to take care of him, to make it better. But there's a lot more to it than that. I needed the excuse to touch him after I swore not to. Even if I never get to feel his hand or mouth around my cock again, getting to touch him and make him feel good is enough. And I can fantasize about the rest while I furiously beat my dick after each visit to his room, the sounds of his moans echoing in my ears. I refuse to even fantasize about ever feeling his ass around my cock again—I'm still sickened and ashamed of how I lost control, how I just took without being aware of anything other than my own pleasure. Shit, even thinking about it nearly has me going soft, remembering the smear of blood on my cock.

---