The water went cold in degrees—first a flicker against his shoulders, then a steady chill that raised goosebumps down his arms, his back, the backs of his thighs. Jason didn't move. His forehead stayed pressed to the tile, hands flat against the wall where Marcus had pinned him, his cock still half-hard and aching from an hour of nothing. The cold should have killed it. It didn't. Every degree that dropped reminded him he was still here, still waiting, still hard for a man who'd walked out and left him dripping.
His body shook. Not shivering—something deeper, something that started in his chest and radiated outward until his knees threatened to buckle. He'd been told to think. He'd been thinking for what felt like hours, the water running colder and colder while his mind circled the same thing over and over: Marcus's hand on his throat. Marcus's cock against his ass. Marcus calling him a good boy and then taking it away. The absence was louder than any punishment.
He reached down without thinking, his fingers wrapping around his own cock—still slick, still leaking, desperate for any friction. One stroke. That's all it would take. Marcus would never know. His hand tightened, and then he heard it in his own head, Marcus's voice, clipped and cold: *You don't get to decide.* His fingers uncurled like they'd been burned. He slammed the water off with his other hand.
The towel was hotel-rough, thin white cotton that scraped across his shoulders, his chest, the tender skin where Marcus's thumb had pressed the bite mark into his throat. Every drag of fabric was a memory—Marcus's palm here, his hip there, the bruise already blooming purple above his left hipbone. Jason dried himself without looking down, without letting his hands linger anywhere that might undo him. By the time he was done, the towel was damp and his skin was still wet in places he couldn't make himself touch.
He walked out of the bathroom naked, the carpet rough under his bare feet, water still beading on his calves. The hotel room was dim—one lamp on the nightstand, the curtains drawn against whatever city they were in. And Marcus was there. Sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, forearms braced on his thighs, his pale blue eyes already fixed on the bathroom door like he'd been watching it the whole time. Waiting. Still holding that cold patience that made Jason's stomach drop and his cock stir in the same breath.
Jason stopped in the middle of the room. Water dripped from his hair onto his shoulders, ran in thin lines down his chest, pooled in the hollow of his throat. He didn't cover himself. Didn't speak. Just stood there, letting Marcus look at him, letting those pale eyes travel from his face to his throat to his chest to his cock—half-hard again, already, despite everything—down to his feet and back up. It felt like being read. Like every inch of him was a report Marcus was filing away in some locked drawer.
"You figured it out yet?" Marcus's voice was gravel, low and even. No anger. No heat. Just the question, dropped into the quiet room like a stone into still water.
Jason's throat tightened. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. He'd been thinking for an hour, and now, standing here with Marcus's eyes on him, every word he'd rehearsed felt wrong. Too small. Too safe. He swallowed, and the sound was loud in the silence. "I don't want to be nothing to you." His voice cracked on *nothing*. Wrecked. Raw. "I want to be yours."
The words hung between them. Jason's chest rose and fell too fast, his hands trembling at his sides, his cock now fully hard and straining toward his stomach. He'd said it. He'd given Marcus the thing he'd been too
Marcus didn't speak. His hand lifted from his thigh—slow, deliberate, the same way he'd moved across the locker room weeks ago, each inch a decision. His fingers found Jason's hip first, the bruise there, pressing just hard enough to make Jason's breath stutter. Then his thumb tracked upward, following the line of Jason's waist, his ribs, the hollow of his throat, until it settled against the bite mark—still tender, still purple, still aching from the shower where Marcus had claimed him and left him empty.
Jason's knees unlocked. He caught himself on the edge of the bed, his hands gripping the mattress on either side of Marcus's thighs, his face suddenly inches from Marcus's. The thumb on his throat didn't push—just rested there, a reminder, a question. Jason could feel his own pulse hammering against Marcus's knuckle, could see the faint lines at the corners of Marcus's pale blue eyes, the salt-and-pepper stubble rough along his jaw. He'd never been this close without a wall behind him.
"You said you wanted to be mine." Marcus's voice scraped low, no question in it, just the words laid down like a rule. His thumb traced the edge of the bite mark, slow circles that made Jason's cock jump and leak against Marcus's thigh. "What does that mean to you?"
Jason's mouth opened. His brain was static, every thought drowned out by the heat of Marcus's hand on his throat, the wet smear of pre-cum cooling on his own stomach. "It means—" He swallowed, and Marcus's thumb pressed harder, not choking, just holding. "It means you don't walk away. It means you don't leave me in the shower again. It means I'm yours to—" His voice broke. "To keep."
Marcus's jaw tightened. The muscle jumped beneath the stubble, and for one second, the cold patience cracked—something raw and hungry flashing through before he locked it down. His free hand came up and gripped the back of Jason's neck, fingers threading into the damp hair, pulling his head back until his throat was bared, the bite mark stretched and offered. "Look at me."
Jason looked. Marcus's eyes weren't cold anymore—they were burning, pale blue fire that pinned him harder than any hand. "I've been keeping you since the day you opened your mouth in my locker room. Every punishment. Every drill. Every time I made you stay after." His thumb stroked the bruise, almost gentle. "You think I did that for discipline?"
"No," Jason breathed. His hips pressed forward without permission, his cock sliding against Marcus's thigh, leaving a slick trail on the dark fabric of his pants. "I think you did it because you couldn't stop looking at me."
Marcus made a sound—low, rough, something between a laugh and a growl. His hand tightened on Jason's neck and pulled him forward, off-balance, until Jason had to climb onto the bed, his knees bracketing Marcus's hips, his hands braced on those broad shoulders. The position left him straddling Marcus's lap, his cock trapped between their stomachs, leaking and
His hands found Jason's hips and pulled—not guiding, not requesting, just taking. Jason's full weight settled into Marcus's lap, his ass pressing down against the hard ridge straining beneath Marcus's pants, and the groan that tore out of his throat was involuntary, broken, loud enough to fill the silent hotel room. Marcus held him there, fingers digging into the bruises already blooming on Jason's hipbones, and let him feel it—the thick heat of his cock through the fabric, the steady flex of his thighs, the way his chest rose and fell with breaths that weren't as controlled as they looked.
"You feel that?" Marcus's voice was gravel scraping stone. His thumb pressed into the hollow of Jason's hip, forcing him to grind down, to take the full length of him, and Jason's cock jerked between their stomachs—leaking, smearing wet across Marcus's abs. "That's what waiting does. That's an hour of you in that shower, touching yourself like I told you not to."
"I didn't—" Jason's protest died as Marcus rolled his hips up, once, a slow drag that shoved the seam of his pants against Jason's hole through nothing but air and desperation. His fingers clawed into Marcus's shoulders, his mouth falling open, a sound that wasn't words catching in his throat. "I stopped. I wanted to, but I stopped."
Marcus's eyes burned up at him. "I know." His hand slid from Jason's hip to the small of his back, pressing him closer, chest to chest, the coarse hair on his pecs scraping Jason's nipples. "I could hear you. Every second you didn't touch yourself, I heard it." His lips brushed Jason's ear, voice dropping to something that wasn't cold at all. "Good boy."
The word hit Jason like a body check. His spine arched, his head dropping back, throat bared and bite mark throbbing, and Marcus latched onto it—not biting, just pressing his mouth over the bruise, tongue tracing the edges of the wound. Jason's hips bucked. He couldn't stop. He rutted against Marcus's stomach, his cock sliding through the slick he'd left there, and Marcus let him—let him chase the friction while his mouth worked the tender skin, while his hands splayed across Jason's back and held him steady.
"Please." The word fell out before Jason could catch it. His voice was wrecked, high and desperate, nothing like the cocky rookie who'd mouthed off in the locker room. "Please, Marcus, I need—"
"I know what you need." Marcus pulled back just enough to look at him, one hand coming up to grip Jason's jaw, thumb pressing into the corner of his mouth. "You need me to decide. You need me to take this—" he rolled his hips again, and Jason sobbed, "—and give you exactly what you've been begging for." His thumb pushed past Jason's lips, pressing down on his tongue, and Jason sucked on instinct, spit pooling, eyes rolling back. "That it?"
Jason nodded around the thumb, unable to speak, his hips still grinding, still chasing, his cock so hard it ached. Marcus watched him—watched his own thumb disappear between Jason's swollen lips, watched the drool slip down his chin, watched the desperate, mindless way Jason's body moved against his. For a long moment, he just looked, and Jason let him, gave him the show, gave him the wreckage of everything he'd been holding back.
Then Marcus pulled his thumb out, slow, dragging it over Jason's lower lip, and replaced it with his mouth. The kiss was nothing like the first one—not a claiming, not a punishment. It was deep and wet and searching, his tongue sliding against Jason's, tasting the salt and the need, and Jason moaned into it, hands fisting in Marcus's salt-and-pepper hair, pulling him closer, climbing him like he could crawl inside his chest. Marcus's hands dropped to his ass, gripping hard, fingers spreading him through nothing but the air, and he ground up against Jason's taint with the thick ridge of his cock still trapped in his pants.
"Gonna take these off," Marcus muttered against his mouth, his voice shaking for the first time all night. "Gonna get you on your back. Gonna—" He broke off, forehead pressing to Jason's, breath ragged. "Been waiting too long. Not gonna be gentle."
Jason's laugh was wet and shaking. "Good." He bit Marcus's lower lip, pulled back with a grin that was all teeth. "I don't want gentle. I want to feel it tomorrow."