Billy was under the shower spray for approximately twenty seconds before Joe came barreling in after him, tripping over the curtain, still wearing his fucking jeans, mouth bloody from where Billy had punched him not one minute earlier.
"Get –-" was as far as Billy got before Joe smashed him up against the wall and then smashed his bleeding lips onto Billy's mouth. Billy closed his eyes. But there was something wrong, something missing –- something like pain, because between the back of Billy's skull and the shower tiles, there was Joe's hand, holding –- actually cradling -- his head, keeping it from hitting the wall. And there was something deeply, deeply fucked up about that, because Joe's mouth was red, bright red, and it had to hurt like a bitch, and Billy had done that. Not even two minutes ago. His own knuckles were scraped and raw from the contact.
His aching hand slid up Joe's bare back and fisted in his hair, holding him there while the metallic taste of Joe's blood mixed with the sweet flavor of the shower water streaming down their faces. Joe sucked on Billy's lip, sucked Billy's tongue into his mouth. Billy gave Joe's hair a none-too-gentle yank and pulled their mouths apart, opening his eyes to glare.
"You're such a cunt," he warned, looking into Joe's face, but Joe was completely unreadable: eyes closed, mouth smeared with pink, breathing heavily.
Then Joe pulled Billy's mouth back to his and pushed his soaking denim-clad hips against Billy's groin, effectively pinning him to the wall. Hands slid down his arms, his sides, slipping along wet skin, squeezing here and there, scratching dully. And then those hands, Joe's hands, were on his cock, on his balls, stroking and pulling, the way he knew he loved it, making him hard and keeping him there.
Joe's mouth left his and painted a wet trail to his neck, where he sucked, pulling hard enough to hurt -- just a little -- but probably not hard enough to leave a mark. Which was also fucked up, and wrong, because Joe had never once passed on an opportunity to leave his mark on Billy –- in any way.
Then all at once, he stopped –- pulled away from Billy's throat and tipped his head backwards, soaking himself in the hot spray from the shower. His hand stayed on Billy's cock. A moment later he was in motion again, and Billy caught a hazy, split-second glimpse of Joe's closed face, clean mouth, water dripping off the tip of his nose, before Joe pressed his forehead -- gently -– against Billy's.
And that –- that was the most fucked up thing of all. Because Joe was -– he was being hesitant. He was being -– fuck, tender. And Billy, recipient of it all, was bewildered out of his mind. This was not what they did. This was not them. They were -- pushing and shoving and hard, furious hand jobs on hotel room floors. Kisses that weren’t kisses but assaults. Billy on his knees, Joe fucking his mouth, fingers pulling at his hair.
"What," Billy said, his head still pressed to Joe's, and then he stopped, not sure what he was asking. But Joe didn't let him finish: he took a deep breath, and then dropped to his knees without another word.
It was familiar, and it wasn't. Joe's hand, Joe's lips on him, his hands on Joe's head -– he knew those things. But the wet caress of the shower while they did it –- that was new. And the slowness. The patience. The -– fuck. Joe's tongue painted long stripes down Billy's cock, licking away the water from the shower, getting to the skin underneath. He pressed his lips to the crown, circled it with his tongue, and then took Billy in, slowly, until Billy felt the head of his cock hit the back of Joe's throat.
God. The water of the shower was hot but Joe's mouth was hotter. His lips made a tight seal, and he moved -- then they moved together, carefully, painfully slow, with that perfectly synchronized rhythm they’d always had. Joe's hands rested on Billy’s hips, but loosely, not holding him –- just touching. So Billy, feeling lost and crazed and maybe a little like risking something, put his hands in Joe's hair again and leaned back, sliding his cock almost out of Joe's mouth before pushing forward again. And Joe -– on his knees -– just let him. Let Billy fuck his mouth, slowly, thrusting into that welcoming mouth again and again. Billy closed his eyes and let his head fall backwards, connecting with the cool tile where Joe's hand was no longer there to protect it.
His orgasm blindsided him, rushing over him with little warning. He pulled at Joe's head, warned him, but Joe didn't move, except maybe to squeeze Billy's hips a little harder. "Stop," Billy said, and then he was coming, helplessly, rocking forward into Joe's mouth and shaking at the knees. And fuck, Joe still didn’t move, he was swallowing -– and then he was choking, coughing, and spitting it back out, while shaking his head bitterly and clutching Billy's shivering thigh.
Billy grinned wildly and slid down the wall to the tub, his skin pulling painfully at the tiles. But the smile slid away into something like shock as he saw, for the first time, that Joe had opened his wet jeans and was roughly jerking himself off, still clinging to Billy.
"Fuck, fuck, sorry – I'm sorry –-" Joe gasped, and then he was holding onto Billy's leg and coming in thick spurts onto the floor of the tub, gasping for breath in the steam.
I'm sorry, he said. And it wasn't about not being able to swallow. It wasn't even about the fight: Joe getting his mouth bloodied, Billy almost gaining a black eye. It was about last night, when Joe had finally fucked him, which he was mostly okay with, and then spent the next twenty-four hours not even looking at him, which he really wasn't.
I'm sorry, he said, and Billy looked at his bowed, wet head and said, "I know."