Riley’s skin had been damp and clean, smelling faintly of lemongrass shampoo when Misha nuzzled the crook of his neck, raising goose bumps with his teeth and his breath. He’d pushed Riley forward until Riley had been straddling the bowl, bracing himself against the wall, panting as Misha had guided himself in and slid deep with one slow, sure shove. Riley had been turned on and slick from fooling around in the shower, but also hesitant to allow himself to be put into such a vulnerable position. He’d showed his misgivings by shifting restlessly at first, still not entirely used to being on the receiving end but willing to let Misha have him this way because he’d wanted Misha as badly as Misha wanted him. Because Misha made it feel so good that Riley, who hated to give up control, had stopped giving a damn about who topped whom.

Misha grunted, his hips pumping faster, his stiff cock pistoning in his fist as he replayed the memory of Riley giving in with a drawn-out, barely audible moan, bowing his head and tilting his hips to grant Misha better access. Legs spread wide by the cold porcelain between his knees, ass stretched tight around Misha’s girth, he’d been the single most gorgeous thing Misha had ever seen. It had been a thrill unlike any other to have Riley yield to him, trusting Misha to make it about pleasure, not domination. To be able to lean forward and bite Riley’s nape, lick the sweat off his skin, taste him, smell him. He’d put his arms around Riley’s broad chest and molded them together while he’d worked his cock as deeply into the damp sheath of Riley’s body as possible; never deep enough. Never close enough. He’d held on when Riley had bucked against him, helpless against the rush of sensation, wanting it so badly, wanting Misha so much he’d been trembling with need.

God, the sounds Riley had made… the….

Misha came with a muffled whimper that seemed too loud in the empty bathroom, shooting like a porn star with Riley’s breathless cries echoing in his mind.

COMING down was sobering. He was alone, sweaty, sticky, and the toilet tank was a mess. He glanced down at his limp-again dick. It looked forlorn, sated but not satisfied, the pressure of Misha’s hand falling short of the friction of Riley’s skin against his. Talk about pathetic. Jesus. He tucked

himself back in, cleaned up, flushed. When he washed his hands, he made the mistake of looking up and meeting his own eyes in the mirror. The man who stared back at him was a stranger, pale and grim, little left of the untouchable professional in complete control of his life. There was a feverish glint in his eyes, the look of a man obsessed, or possibly possessed.