Tate’s breath punched out of him.

Knox worked him open right there under the water, one finger, then two, soap and spit and patience that was not really patience. Every time Tate’s hips jerked, Knox’s mouth found his throat and stayed there, sucking a mark low enough that a collar would hide it. The shower roared. That helped. Tate still heard himself on the edges of it, small broken sounds he couldn’t swallow fast enough.

Knox pulled his fingers out, shut the water off, and didn’t bother with the towel.

They didn’t make it to the bed on the first try. Knox pushed him against the bathroom door, still dripping,...