23. Chapter 17
Lorenzo
Dash looks over his shoulder as he walks to his bedroom. “I’m going to shower,” he says breezily, and then disappears into his room, leaving me sitting dumbly in my stool.
He just kissed my cheek.
And then told me he was going to shower.
And he left his bedroom door open.
What the fuck? I think.
Go watch, another part of my brain says.
I don’t move from my stool for almost a full minute, replaying the moment of the kiss in my mind. I think over what he said—I’m going to shower—dissecting it from every angle.
On one hand, maybe he’s just letting me know what he’s up to.
Or, maybe he was offering me an invitation.
The door to his bedroom stays open. Even from the kitchen, I can hear the sound of the water turning on. His bathroom door must be open, too.
I finish my coffee, refusing to look back down the hall. Refusing to wonder if there’s steam drifting out the door, refusing to picture what Dash might be doing in that bathroom, how he might be shedding his clothes, touching himself, getting wet.
I think about anything else.
I think about Reiner’s question. Who stood to gain the most? I think about my brother’s face at the funeral, carefully mourning in all the right ways. I think about anything, anything at all that isn’t the sound of water hitting Dash’s body.
Then, I stand, telling myself it’s just because I need to rinse my mug. But I walk past the sink, turn toward the hall, and throw myself off this cliff.
I’m just checking to make sure he’s all right. Check that the water is a pleasant temperature. Confirm that his scraped arm isn’t giving him any trouble.
Who am I kidding?
That’s not why I push into his bedroom, not why I stop and stare at the open door to the en-suite bathroom.
I need to see him.
The bathroom door hangs wide open, and through the gap I can see the glass of the shower wall, turned glittering and gold in the light of the recessed bulb overhead.
And beyond the glass, steam rises already, fogging pieces of it. And Dash—
Naked and languid behind the glass, the steam obscuring the most intimate parts of his body, but leaving the rest of his bare skin for my enjoyment.
He is small, slender, but compact with lean, crisp muscles.
His skin is pale, like polished ivory. And, oh, I wish it were my hands frothing soap over his body, running my hands over that perfect, creamy skin, touching him in those dark, hidden places.
He is not showering, I perceive, like a man does when he thinks he’s alone.
There’s a slow, deliberate, luxurious quality to his movements that has nothing to do with getting clean. His strong, delicate body becomes a work of art under his own hands, a thing to be admired, to be worshipped.
His head tips back, water cascading in glistening gossamer sheets down his throat, his chest, his abdomen.
He must know that I’m here.
Deep in my core, warmth and pleasure gathers, sinking toward my cock, swelling it and directing me to the most base urges.
I’m like some primitive animal, captured by the sensual mating dance of another beast, and my body responds accordingly.
I am entranced by his performance, reduced to nothing but my desire.
I want to seize him, to control him, to lavish on him all the passion of my arousal, to show him just what his little performance does to me. What he does to me.
He turns his head, water sliding down the line of his jaw, and looks directly at me.
I freeze, caught in my act of voyeurism, equal parts ashamed and pleased.
His eyes dip lower, skating down my body to land at my midsection. I follow his gaze and see the evidence of my desire printing through my gray sweatpants, the long hard lines of my erection visible even to him.
See what you do to me? I want to cry.
My hands find the waistband of my sweatpants. I don’t look away from him while I push them down my hips, freeing myself.
Dash doesn’t look away, either. A hand rises, and he wipes the fog from the glass wall to see me better—and giving me a full view of him: beautiful, naked, and hard.
Silver ropes of water run down his slender body as he grasps himself, his hand working slow and sure.
My strokes on my own cock match his. He leans against the wall, his head tipped back, not even watching me anymore. Just putting on a beautiful, perfect, erotic display for me.
For me.
I imagine myself in that shower with him, forcing him to his knees, raising his chin to look up at me as water sluices down his face.
I imagine running the swollen head of my cock past those full lips, pushing myself inside.
Imagine him taking me into his mouth, welcoming it, savoring the taste of me on his tongue as I spill down his throat.
He cums first, his forehead dropping against the glass as his shoulders curl and his abs tense and his cock jerks in his hand, shooting pearls of cum onto the wall of the shower.
Watching him come undone like that, watching him finish, is enough to finish me.
I grunt as my orgasm hits me, fast and hard and strong and over all too soon.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. I look at my cum-filled hand, then up at him, cloaked in steam and watching me.
The water runs around him, fogging the glass again, softening him into something almost impressionistic. He’s all blurred light and gold lines, a beautiful apparition and the object of all my desires.
Then he turns, facing the shower head again, and begins to wash his hair.