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The hotel had a discreet back entrance that led to a discreet back elevator—which was lucky, because walking through the lobby dripping blood onto the fancy mosaic tiles would’ve raised a few eyebrows even in a place like this. Our kind of establishment, Griffith would’ve said, only Griffith wasn’t saying much of anything right now, just thousand-yard-staring at his reflection in the mirrored wall. Pupils shrunk to pinpricks, dark exhausted smudges under his eyes that had even broken through the reinforced-steel defences of his twelve-step Korean skincare routine.
It was a miracle they’d both gotten away without bullet wounds. Guts still wasn’t a hundred percent on why Griffith had insisted on keeping a job this big—the head honcho of MidCorp, accompanied by half-a-dozen hired goons—to only the two of them, but he knew from experience that if he asked right now, all he’d get in response was a distracted hum and the brush-off. At least until Griffith decided to answer in his own cryptic way three hours later.
So, they trudged back to their suite in near silence, and before Guts could even fumble his keycard out of his pocket, Griffith had vanished through the door and into the bathroom without a word. Pieces of discarded clothing marked the path he’d walked like a trail of bloody breadcrumbs. A moment later there was the sound of running water.
Guts kicked off his shoes, stripped off his clothes, and stuffed the whole lot in the bag marked ‘Special Laundry Service’, which actually meant ‘Straight to the Incinerator, No Questions Asked’. He thought about leaving Griffith to clean up his own shit once he was done stewing in the tub, feeling the same kinda petty he always did when Griffith got in one of these quietly unreachable moods—but, like he always did in the end, he shoved Griffith’s stuff in there too and padded on through to the bathroom.
A cloud of fragrant steam hit him in the face, something clean and herbal that he couldn’t have identified. Guts blinked and peered through the vapour until he made out Griffith’s pale figure reclining in the enormous sunken tub—seriously, the thing was practically a swimming pool. Griffith was flushed from the hot water, a few wet strands of hair cascading over the edge. The ends had been matted with blood, earlier; now, in the water, the red had faded to a murky pink.
Griffith raised his head slowly. The pinched expression he’d had earlier had mellowed into this kinda lost little half-smile that made him look both older and younger at the same time.
“You good?” Guts asked, cautiously.
Griffith made a noncommittal sound. “We’ve done what we came here to do.” Which wasn’t anywhere near being an answer, but then what the fuck would Guts have done with a real one? Wasn’t like he knew anything about talking to people about their feelings.
“Okay,” he said. Took a half-step toward the tub and paused, not sure of his welcome.
Griffith gave him a long, considering look and seemed to come to a decision. He beckoned with a shade of his usual imperiousness. “Since you’re here,” he said, “you can make yourself useful.” From somewhere under the water he produced his shampoo, some ridiculous designer shit that cost more than a bottle of mid-shelf bourbon and still didn’t stop him from looking like a poodle when it rained. He held it out as if he was offering a favour.
Guts breathed a sigh of relief and sat his ass down on the edge of the tub, parting his legs so Griffith could lean back between them. The water was so hot he hissed when the soles of his feet met it. “Man, why do you gotta boil yourself like a lobster every time you take a bath?”
Griffith pressed the shampoo bottle into his hand without turning his head. “It’s good for you. Relaxes the muscles and opens the pores.”
Griffith lecturing anyone about relaxation: that was a laugh. Sure, some days he walked around without a care in the world, made jokes and played dumb pranks and pulled Guts into half-hidden corners to steal kisses, but others he was wound up tighter than a nun’s ass. You could never be totally sure which version you were gonna get.
Guts didn’t say anything about it, though. Even if he’d known where to start, he didn’t have the stomach for a fight right now. He was sore all over, too, a bowstring of tension between his shoulders and a throbbing ache in his thighs.
He squirted a blob of Griffith’s fancy-ass shampoo into his palm and massaged it into Griffith’s hair instead of speaking, working his fingers carefully through the tangles. Griffith sighed softly at the press of them against his scalp and leaned back into him.
Nothing Guts did in his daily life required this kind of care, this gentle of a touch. Even now, he couldn’t keep from thinking: I could snap his neck right here, if I needed to.
Took a lot for a guy like Griffith to trust like this. It meant something, even if Guts wasn’t always sure what.
He took his time working the lather through the length of Griffith’s hair, washing out the last bits of dried blood and the faded pink stains. Griffith tipped his head back, eyes drifting shut, so that if not for the dusting of pink across his chest and his cheekbones, Guts would’ve thought he was asleep.
“Okay,” Guts said at last, “good as new.”
Griffith blinked, smiling, screwed his eyes shut again and ducked under the water to rinse out the suds. He resurfaced facing Guts, the faint beginnings of a twinkle in his eyes. “Join me. I’m sure it’s cooled enough to suit your delicate feelings by now. And, if you hadn’t noticed, you’re still a little… sanguine.”
Guts didn’t ask what the hell that meant, just grumbled, “I’ll show you delicate,” but he plopped into the tub and settled onto the bench.
He had to admit, the warm water felt pretty good on his aching muscles. Even better was the way Griffith surged into his lap and straddled his thighs, pressing them chest-to-chest. Guts curled a hand around the back of his neck to pull him into a deep kiss. So maybe he was never gonna get Griffith to talk about what was bothering him—and maybe, if he was honest, he wasn’t sure he wanted to—but this was one thing he knew how to give.
Griffith allowed one kiss, then another, a slippery wet press of panting mouths, and pulled away from him. He’d retrieved the shampoo somehow while they kissed, and began lathering it through the blood-stiffened spikes of Guts’ hair.
The flowery smell made Guts wrinkle his nose, but having Griffith’s slender fingers in his hair, their faces so close together Griffith’s damp pink lips brushed his forehead, was enough to make up for the girly shit. He could feel Griffith’s breathing quicken, and an answering, wanting ache unfurled itself slowly beneath his skin. No need to guess where this was going.
“Rinse,” Griffith commanded, at last, and Guts did as he was told, ducked his head under the water and scrubbed his hands through his soapy hair, shaking himself like a wet dog as he surfaced.
Griffith spluttered when a shower of droplets hit him in the face, but he was laughing as he cupped Guts’ cheeks between his hands and settled back into his lap. “I ought to let you go to bed alone for that,” he said, but instead he kissed the tip of Guts’ nose, and his neck, and slid a hand between them to grasp his half-hard dick. His touch was soft and sure as always, and Guts couldn’t help but move his hips into it, breath hitching in his chest.
He reached down to return the favour, but Griffith twisted away from him before he could get there. He straddled Guts’ thighs backward, so Guts’ dick slid along the cleft of his ass, and then he let Guts wrap a slick, soapy fist around his cock.
It hardened in Guts’ palm. He felt the rapid rise and fall of Griffith’s chest beneath his arm, the tremor in his lean thighs. They moved against each other like that for long moments, Griffith fucking up into his hand and rubbing against him until his cock filled out and he couldn’t stand the teasing any longer.
“C’mon,” he said, a desperate little hitch in his voice, “turn around, lemme…” He trailed off, eyes rolling back as Griffith slid against him once, twice more and then relented.
When Griffith turned to face him, his smile reached his eyes in a way it hadn’t since they left for this job. His lips were parted, pink and wet—and hungry, when he surged forward to draw Guts into a deep, searching kiss. Guts let it happen, even though Griffith’s fingernails dug into his shoulders hard enough the half-moons they left behind would be there for hours, and it kinda felt as if Griffith was trying to devour him whole. Days like this, Griffith seemed to need it—to kiss and claw and demand until he’d gotten some wandering part of himself back in the process.
Guts had learned to be grateful for it. It meant Griffith was drifting back toward him, back from whatever lonely heights he floated off to when he got lost inside himself.
He gripped Griffith’s thighs and hefted them both outta the water and onto the edge of the tub, grunting as the effort made his sore muscles protest. He was gonna be paying for this later, he could tell.
But Griffith smiled down at him sharp and wanting, thighs bracketing his hips, and said, “Is this what you wanted me to let you do?” and Guts decided that was future-him’s problem.
Griffith had conjured another bottle outta the suds as if by magic, and this one sure as hell wasn’t shampoo. Guts watched, mesmerised, as he slicked two fingers with lube and pushed them into himself—the stretch of his hole around them and the faint wince that crossed his face as his own impatience got the better of him. He knew Griffith wasn’t the breakable type, at least nowhere near as much as he looked it, but a sudden stab of tenderness pierced him and had him reaching for Griffith’s wrist.
“Here,” he said, “let me,” and this time Griffith gave him what he was asking for right away, slipping his fingers out and letting Guts take his place.
He pressed his middle finger in to the knuckle, then carefully deeper. His free hand cradled the sharp jut of Griffith’s hip as gently as he knew how, like he was touching something holy. Griffith, in contrast, was still clutching his shoulders bruise-hard, but the grip slackened as Griffith’s expression smoothed out and he sank down, breath coming in quick, eager puffs.
He was hypnotic, head tipped back and cheeks pink, cock so hard against his belly it had to hurt. He looked like some kinda mythical siren emerging from the waves, and Guts was the hapless sailor who’d managed to wash up in his domain.
“Alright,” Griffith said, at last, a breathless edge to that smooth voice. “Now.”
Guts didn’t even think about making him wait. He fumbled for the lube with wet fingers, finally managed to get purchase on the bottle to squirt some into his palm and slick himself up—and then Griffith was bearing down on him, that consuming blue gaze holding him pinned. The fluttering heat of Griffith’s body was almost enough to have him blowing his load that very second, but Griffith woulda never let him hear the end of it, so he dug his fingernails into his palms so hard it hurt and held himself still, taking in a single deep, shuddery breath.
Griffith rode him in relentless, staccato movements, not letting up for a single second. He had his hand wrapped around his own dick, stroking hard and fast, and if he didn’t let up this was gonna be over as soon as it had gotten started.
“Hey,” Guts got out, “you wanna slow down?”
Griffith’s eyes bored into him. “No.”
“This ain’t gonna last long if you—”
“I don’t care. Now fuck me.”
And Guts could no more have disobeyed than he coulda sprouted wings and flown out the window, so he did as he was told, giving Griffith what he’d asked for in quick, desperate thrusts that pushed harsh gasps from his lips.
He hadn’t been bullshitting. It was over way sooner than his pride would’ve liked, an orgasm wringing itself outta him so hard his knees turned to jelly and it was a damn good thing he was already on his back.
Griffith went still on top of him, but he didn’t stop jerking himself off, still hard, dick pink and shiny with pre-come.
“Shit,” Guts said. “Sorry.”
Griffith shook his head and slid impatiently off of him. “Bed,” he said, and made his way into the bedroom without even bothering to towel himself off, leaving behind a trail of wet footprints to match the one of bloodied clothes.
Guts hung on a couple seconds, until he was pretty sure he wasn’t gonna wobble over and land on his ass when he stood up, and followed.
He found Griffith on top of the covers, the moisture from his body already soaking into the linens. Griffith leaned back onto his elbows, legs spread, cock still standing proud in its nest of damp silver curls. Not for the first time, Guts wondered what he would ask for and swallowed around a brief, nervous dryness in his throat.
He’d never told Griffith the shit that happened to him as a kid. Hadn’t needed to. For all that Griffith could be a demanding little asshole in bed, he skirted around the most jagged of Guts’ edges as if he knew there was something there and had decided to leave well alone. Kinda felt like fair trade for the way Guts did whatever he asked, no questions, in the rest of their lives. They’d never talked about it, though. No guarantee that wouldn’t change.
But now, Griffith only put his head on one side and smiled. “On your back.”
The second Guts had done as he was told, Griffith was on him again—straddling his chest, this time, wet hands sliding over the planes of muscle there. He teased a nipple between thumb and finger and Guts hissed, still oversensitive from the hot water and the aftermath of having come his brains out. “Ow!”
“Oh, fine.” Griffith rolled his eyes, a little more composed again, now, but splayed his fingers, kneading at Guts’ flesh as if he was a cat trying to make its bed. And then—Jesus—he pressed Guts’ pecs together so his dick was caught in the middle, the rosy head of it coming toward Guts with each roll of his hips. Like they were titty-fucking.
The heat that washed through Guts was part shame, part arousal. His spent dick gave a feeble twitch of interest even as he turned his head into the pillow to hide his embarrassment.
Griffith’s hand found his cheek, brought him back. “Let me see you,” he whispered, and his voice was so hoarse with want that Guts couldn’t do anything but obey. He felt like he’d always been here, staring up at Griffith while he shone bright as a fever, transfixed by every desperate, surging movement and every quiet moan that passed his lips. Until Griffith said, “Close your eyes,” and almost before Guts had the chance to do it, he was coming, spilling over Guts’ chest and spattering his chin and his half-open mouth so he tasted salt.
“Still mine,” Griffith said, with something like satisfaction and something like wonder, and his fingers slid through the mess. When Guts opened his eyes, he put his fingers to his lips. He sucked them clean one by one, and Guts couldn’t look away. He never could.
###
“You gonna tell me what brought this on?” Guts asked, later. Griffith’s head was on his chest, his hair drying into an unruly mess of curls he was gonna fuss with and bitch about endlessly later.
Griffith looked up fractionally, eyebrows raised. “I wasn’t aware we needed an excuse.”
“You know what I mean.”
He half thought Griffith was gonna keep on playing dumb until he dropped it. Griffith frowned, though, and his eyes went distant and thoughtful, but not in that awful, untouchable way they had earlier. “You want to know why I kept this assignment from the others.”
“Well, yeah.”
“It was partly because of who hired us. Charlotte Windham.”
Guts frowned down at him, taking a minute to place the name. “That CEO guy’s daughter?”
“Yes.” Griffith’s lips thinned, his eyes darkening briefly. “From what I hear, she had her reasons. But what I’m really interested in is what happens next. She inherits one of the biggest companies in the world, and real political power. And I am her knight in shining armour.”
“So, what? More money, more jobs?”
Griffith’s smile was full of secretive promise. “I’m thinking bigger than that. This is our first step into a wider world. Out of the shadows.”
A part of Guts twinged with—what? disappointment? apprehension?—at the words. Some people weren’t made to step into the light. He’d always figured Griffith knew he was one of them.
He swallowed down the strange, dislocated feeling. “So how come you looked like someone pissed in your Lucky Charms when we got back?”
Griffith shrugged, easy now, practised. “Oh, there’s always a weight to these things. We shouldn’t lose track of our sins, and I’m not sure mine will ever be washed clean.”
Guts wanted to say you’re no worse than the rest of us or you only do what you gotta, or something, anyway, but Griffith had spoken so lightly, tossing aside the possibility of an answer the same way he’d discard a used tissue. It stopped the words in his throat.
Griffith sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “On that note, I think we need a real shower.” He got to his feet, stood on his toes and locked his hands above his head, stretching out his body in clean, decisive lines.
Guts reached out a hand toward him. “In a minute?” He hadn’t meant it as a question, but that was how it came out.
Griffith tilted his head. “Fine,” he said at last, and slid back into the sheets. He settled with his head on Guts’ chest, and Guts wrapped an arm around his waist and held him there, as close as he could, for as long as he could.