I’m relieved when there’s no sign of him in the communal shower area and that there is water running and steam emerging from one of the two cubicle showers opposite. I’m not sure how well I could cope with seeing Marcello in the shower. A picture-perfect image of him naked flashes behind my closed eyes as I quickly strip off my clothes and hang them up under my towel on one of the hooks on the wall. My dick thickens at the memory, and I rush to get inside the other available private shower so I can hide my erection in peace.
Just before I turn the water on in the cubicle next to Marcello, I hear him start to sing. In Italian.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Does he have to?
I haven’t the slightest clue what the words he’s crooning mean but somehow I know it’s a love song. And of course, that makes it all the more adorable. I’m only partially disappointed when the sound of my watercoming on doesn’t drown out his singing and I tilt my head back under the spray and smile as I listen to his voice drop with impressive pitch, before rising high a few beats later. I no longer care that I’m now hard as a rock.
“You can really sing!” I call out.
That shuts him up, which disappoints me a lot more.
“Sorry,” he says. “I don’t get to sing in the shower much at home. Don’t like to wake my mum up. But I’ve always done it.”
“And always in Italian?”
“Sometimes, yeah,” he says, shyly.
“You can keep going,” I say, opening my shower gel and squirting out a generous amount onto the palm of my hand. “I like it.”
Those three words seem to linger in the air between us when Marcello doesn’t start singing again. They seem to stretch and echo and take on a life of their own, mischievously hinting too much about what I like.
I like it. I likeyou.
I’m cringing again as the silence continues and I wash myself roughly, counting my movements in threes as I do.
“Giles,” Marcello’s voice comes over the cubicle wall we share.
“Yeah?” I look towards his voice, at the top of the partition where my steam meets his.
“Can I ask you something?”
Oh God, he knows. He knows I like him and he’s going to confront me. He’s going to tell me he doesn’t feel the same way – because of course he doesn’t – and we therefore shouldn’t train together anymore. He’s going to tell me he doesn’t want to be friends. And I’m going to… I’m going to…
I’m going to get a grip.
“Sure,” I call back, and I impress myself with how calm I sound.
“Do you… Can I…” He pauses again and I hold my breath as I wait. “Can I borrow some shower gel? I forgot mine and the gym’s stuff is rancid.”
Relief washes over me, bringing my breath back and loosening my shoulders. “Of course,” I say and I move to bend down and tuck the bottle under the partition but then I hear the click of Marcello’s lock opening and I realise he wants to meet outside the door. I rush to open the door, forgetting all about the way my cock is thick and rock hard.
I only remember it when I open the door and Marcello’s eyes drop to between my legs. I follow his gaze and feel my eyes widen in shock. I squeeze them shut, count to three, and pray when I open them again, I’ve been sucked into the underworld, never to return and relive this embarrassing moment. But that doesn’t happen. I open my eyes and look at Marcello and see him… smile.
He’s looking at me, with an easy grin on his face, and then he nods down at his own body.
“Snap,” he says before my gaze sees his long dick is fuller than it was a few minutes ago. Fuller, darker and with a number of veins zig-zagging up the shaft.
“Oh.” I say. It’s all I can say.
Suddenly the bottle of shower gel is yanked out of my hand and Marcello says “thanks” like I just held a door open for him, and then he’s gone. Him and his beautiful erection are both gone.
Chapter Eleven
Marcello
She’s pretty. Really pretty. Like the kind of pretty I imagine a lot of women pay a lot of money for. In fact, I think that may be what’s happening here. Her hair is blonde. Her eyes are bright blue. Her eyelashes are thick and long and I’m starting to think her eyebrows have been combed more times in preparation for this date than my hair ever has been.
So, yeah. Daisy is attractive. And she’s easy enough to talk to, and yet I’m finding it hard to focus on what she’s saying. I’m finding it hard to think about responses that are better than half-hearted hums of agreement or obvious follow-up questions.
