Chapter 13 #2
But he’s not singing. He’s standing with his head tipped back, water sluicing down the front of him before dripping onto the floor—a staccato rhythm to accompany the low vibrations coming from his throat.
Every inch of me feels too small, like a six-foot-two person shoved into a five-foot-six skin.
My dick throbs, and I’m starting to think I might actually have to partially undress lest I give myself an injury.
I close my eyes briefly when he grabs the soap, suddenly grateful that his back is to me and I can’t watch his hand slide over his slick chest. The view from behind is enough, and frankly, I’m enjoying the tease.
Enjoying the way suds drip down his legs and mix with the water swirling around the drain.
Enjoying the way the glass has fogged up, obscuring just enough of him to be enticing.
His movements stutter when he has to clean his underarms, a tiny display of the nerves I know are still burrowed beneath the surface.
I smile to myself, finding it a little cute that he’s worried the sexy routine will be ruined by something as natural as soaping up his armpits. It makes me want to kiss him.
His skin is pink from the heat of the shower, hair a damp, dark mess plastered to the top of his head.
He angles away slightly, hips more directly facing the wall, as his hands slide south.
I have to close my eyes again when he bends to reach his legs.
I’ll be the one needing a shower next at this rate.
Not to mention fresh clothes after I come in my jeans.
By the time he turns around to face me, the walls of the shower are foggy with steam, and more of him is left to the imagination than on display.
Even so, I can see how hard he is, and my own pelvis throbs in response.
This maybe wasn’t the best idea, because now he’s going to finish up, and then what?
We go into the bedroom and have sex? I wouldn’t even know where to start.
I try not to stare at the small thatch of hair between his legs, dark from the water.
I try not to stare at the red flush of his dick or imagine how the weight might feel in my palm.
How it might feel inside me. I keep my fingers curled against the lip of the counter, reminding myself to stay put.
It’s hot in here and so much of me aches with want.
Oliver washes his hair before tipping his head back, eyes closed, to rinse, long fingers sliding through the strands, neck bared.
I watch, nervous system snapping with so much electricity I’m probably a fire hazard, wondering what the next step is now that the washing is done.
Rinsing finished, he moves a step forward, out from under the water, but doesn’t turn it off.
Instead, eyes on mine, he reaches down and touches himself.
His arm is barely moving, strokes slow, the path slick with water.
“You could join me,” he offers softly, but doesn’t move to open the shower door.
As though all I was waiting for was permission, my fingers drop to the button on my jeans.
There is no space in me for embarrassment or nerves.
Nothing in my mind but Oliver. I shove my pants and boxers down together, only far enough for my dick to spring free.
Oliver—water streaming down his face in rivulets—licks his lips.
I have to squeeze a hand around myself hard enough to hurt, desperately trying not to come.
It’s not even his hand that I watch as we stroke in time with one another, but his face.
I watch the way his eyelids flutter and the indent on his bottom lip as he bites it.
I watch the strain in his shoulders and the way his chest moves as his breathing turns into pants.
I watch the shape his mouth makes as he comes and groan with him as I follow, body straining for the release it’s been wanting since Oliver turned the water on.
My legs hurt like I’ve done something more strenuous than watch a man shower, and I’m grateful for the counter helping me remain upright.
Oliver, who is standing on a slippery surface, puts a palm on the wall and turns off the water.
I reach for his towel only to realize my hand is covered in cum and backtrack to the sink.
I also take a moment to tuck myself back into my jeans, not embarrassed quite yet but feeling like walking around fully clothed with my dick hanging out would probably be the way to get there.
I don’t waste time buttoning up, leaving my jeans open as I reach once more for the towel.
Oliver, having exited the shower silently, already has a hand on the bar.
I tug the towel gently away and put it around his shoulders, heart thudding in a way that feels dangerous as his eyes meet mine.
Mostly green, now, and bright above flushed cheeks.
He’s naked and all wet and will be cold in a few minutes, but I lean down to kiss him anyway, wondering what it might be like to go chasing water droplets with my tongue.
“You’ll get wet,” he murmurs when I move closer.
Not even bothering to comment on how little that would matter, I kiss my way over to his ear and down his neck, making him laugh.
Straightening, I drop my hands and watch as he towels dry—a different kind of tease than the one in the shower, and perhaps more dangerous, given his proximity.
I can smell coconut on his skin, like the soap he used was tropical, and I want even more badly to taste him than I did before.
Instead, I touch his hair, running my hands through the waves, soggy and cool from the shower. I’ve gone from a man who never touches anyone to someone who can’t keep their hands to themselves. It doesn’t hurt that Oliver is so receptive to it—leaning into me like a cat wanting its back scratched.
“That was fun,” he comments, dislodging my hand to bend and dry his feet. I huff a soft laugh, glad I’m not the only one who struggles with words on occasion. Fun. “Not going to be as enjoyable to shower on my own now, though. Might have to set up a tripod and livestream for you every evening.”
I meet his eye, and he laughs, hanging the towel around his neck and reaching for his clothes.
The yellow panties are slipped on, an action I watch almost as avidly as I did him getting off in the shower.
Oliver standing here naked was sexy, but there is something unquestionably sensual about the lace being there against his skin—an erotic mix of muscle and strength and beauty.
It makes little sense to me, trying to understand why someone would dislike this.
Carefully, I put a finger on his side and slide it down to his hip, teasing the fabric with the pad of my thumb.
“I like that,” Oliver whispers. I look up at him, worried for a moment that he’d been talking and I was too distracted by lace to notice. I’m very careful about never zoning out or ignoring him when he speaks. He adds, “When you look at me like that.”
“I like this,” I tell him, sliding my finger along his belly, tracing the fabric. His skin quivers, and I wonder for the first time in my life what sort of refractory period I have. “And you.”
He looks pleased as he finishes getting dressed, the yellow unfortunately disappearing under a pair of drab sweatpants as he hums a happy melody under his breath. Yawning, he hangs the damp towel back over the bar and stretches his arms over his head, hair a mess, expression loose and satisfied.
“Hungry?” he asks.