The water continued to pour in a rush over Kane’s shoulders, tepid and comfortable, but if he didn’t move soon, his legs wouldn’t hold him up much longer. The slick stone was hard against his spine, and a creaking ache in his back and knees warned him of an impending, vicious muscle cramp. His hands shook as he reached for the hot water knob, but it twisted easily in his grasp, and a moment later, steam fogged up the shower glass, obscuring the rest of the bathroom from him.
He lathered up again, snorting when his dick responded feebly to the green-tea soap as it foamed on the washcloth. Carefully washing his cock and balls, Kane used one hand to lean against the wall, needing it to support his trembling muscles as he rinsed off his release.
“Jesus, Miki,” Kane mumbled, bending his head forward under the pour until the water ran through his hair. “What the hell have I gotten myself into with you?”
It was too soon for them. Kane knew that in his gut. Miki was riding a wave of nightmares and old pain. Something lingered in Miki’s psyche, something rotting so deep inside of him it made the man question who he was even as he clung to Kane for support. It’d risen when Miki’s silent tears succumbed to a whispering keen, and the man rocked slightly as Kane stroked his shoulders and sides.
They fucked me up so much. I don’t even know if I really like guys. Suppose it’s just ’cause of what they did to me? he’d murmured, nearly low enough for Kane to miss hearing. That why no one really wants anything but a fuck? You think that’s why no one sticks around? ’Cause that’s all they made me good for? Fucking?
It stung to hear those words. Kane’s stomach clenched when Miki bared his raw soul. Nothing Kane said would take away those doubts. They both knew that anything Kane could say to him would be fleeting and hollow. Instead, they just held one another, first in the soft light of the living room, then in the comforting darkness of a bed linen cocoon as they were serenaded by a snoring dog.
“Damn it, I just want to kill someone for putting this shit on him,” Kane swore. “Or go in there and fuck him, like that would do any good. I can’t do jack shit right now, and now I’m talking to myself like some fricking crazy person.”
He turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, letting the steam pour out into the room. His muscles were still tight, even with the stroking off, and Kane hunted through the cabinets for anything resembling aspirin. Coming up with a nearly full bottle of ibuprofen, he shook out a few and gulped them down dry, leaving the bottle out so he could force two or three down Miki’s throat.
“Well, not like I didn’t wear enough of Connor’s shit growing up.” Rooting through what Connor left him, Kane frowned at his choices. He leaned over to roll the borrowed sweats up enough so he didn’t drag them on the ground. “Great, and they fucking say SWAT all over them. Egotistical bastard.”
The sweats were too soft from years of washing, and the hems unfolded when Kane walked to the kitchen. Digging out a package of Kona coffee from the squillions of bags Miki had stashed in his industrial-sized freezer, he tapped out a heap of grounds into the steel coffee filter and stepped back—falling flat on his ass when his heel caught the back of Connor’s sweats, and he slid forward, unable to catch himself before he slammed into the kitchen floor.
“To hell with this,” Kane growled, getting up slowly from the floor. “I’ve got to have something in the car. At least something to wear that won’t try to kill me until I can find the washing machine in this place.”
A quick glance toward the open archway reassured him that Miki was still asleep. Yawning, the terrier stretched and groggily stumbled off of the edge of the bed, shaking out his blond fur before trotting up to sniff at Kane’s ankle.
“I’m just going to the car,” Kane promised the dog. Grabbing his keys off of the table, he held his hand up to Dude. “Stay here. I’m going to be right back.”
Still barefoot, he opened the front door—and reeled back when the screaming started.
“FUCKING hell,” Miki swore as he tripped over a sneaker.
His leg hurt, and the throb in his knee was nearly seismic as it thumped its displeasure. The Nike was too large for his foot, and he blinked, trying to make sense of the size eleven shoe in the middle of his bedroom floor. His answer came to him in a rush of memory: disheveled black hair, a sinful Irish whiskey voice, and delectably large hands cradling him as he unsuccessfully tried not to cry. He sniffed, catching a whiff of Kane on his clothes, and yawned again, padding out to the living room to find out what all the yelling was about.
The front door was open, and Miki scrubbed at his eyes when the watery afternoon sun hit his face. Taking a few steps from the threshold was a mistake. When his bare feet hit the long swatch of damp grass separating the warehouse from the cement walk, a crowd of people swarmed toward him.
Miki turned his head, ignoring the crowd. He spotted his dog and limped over to where Dude stood, furiously ravaging a man’s pants leg. Further down the walk, Kane shoved a beefy-faced photographer to the ground, shattering the man’s camera when he threw it onto the asphalt.