“What do you say we get out of these wet clothes?” I don’t know where this streak of confidence came from, but it’s probably derived from the realization that I can be whomever I want to be right now and never have to see this guy again.
The only light in the room comes from the outdoor flood lights shining through the transom above the door. In the dim space, his hands run up and down my arms, like he’s trying to chase away the chill. Then he turns, taking a few quick steps across the room and disappearing into the bathroom before returning with two folded towels in his arms.
Gently and without words, he turns me so my back is to him, and tugs down the zipper on my dress. It crests my shoulders and falls to my waist. He presses his lips to my shoulder and trails kisses along the ridge of muscle to my neck, where he nips at the skin, raising more goose bumps. This time, though, they’re from my entire core clenching in anticipation, not the chilly air. I’ve never done anything like this before.
His hands meet the fabric at my hips as he slides the dress over them, and he hisses out an appreciative “Damn,” as the fabric falls to the floor. I’m normally incredibly self-consciousabout my body. My skin is firm and taut and damn near perfect, but every part of my body is larger than I’d like.
I want the kind of body positivity that I know most of my generation has, but my teen years were spent hearing “you have such a beautiful face,” which—combined with my mom’s casual remarks about hitting the gym more often—has left me with deep insecurities that won’t go away no matter how ridiculous I know they are.
But, as if I knew he’d appreciate me exactly as I am, it never once occurred to me to be self-conscious in front of this man. The fact that there’s very little light in this room helps, too.
He drags the thin straps of my thong over my hips and it also falls to the floor. A gentle tap on my arms and a soft spoken “Up” prompts me to lift my arms so he can wrap a towel around me. I tuck one corner under the edge of the towel where it rests across my breasts and step out of the fabric of the dress pooled at my feet before turning to face him.
Squatting at my feet, the muscular curve of his thighs fully on display between the hem of his khaki shorts and his knees, he fists my dress in his hand and looks up at me with hunger in his eyes. He stands and drapes my dress over the wooden chair at the built-in desk on the wall behind me, before hanging my thong off the corner to dry.
His eyes are on me as his fingers come to the buttons of his collared shirt, and there are butterflies making a ruckus in my belly as I imagine how he’ll look without clothes. I can tell he’s muscular, but not overly bulky.
“Here.” Stepping toward him to close the small distance between us, my voice is huskier than normal when I say, “Let me.”
His hands fall to my hips and his fingers curl into the towel as I glance down at his shirt and start undoing the buttons. The sound of our breathing grows heavier in the silence of the room,the occasional howl of the wind and rain outside serving as background noise while my skin heats under his gaze. I feel his eyes on me without even looking at him to confirm it. As I undo the last button and then slide my hands along his chest to push the shirt back over his shoulders, his breath catches and he dips his head to press a kiss to my hair where it meets my forehead.
I’ve never done this before—never had sex with a stranger—and I consider telling him that. But then he’s shrugging out of his shirt and tossing it aside as he undoes his belt and the button and zipper of his shorts with alarming alacrity, before dropping them to the ground.
And then it’s my breath that’s hitching as I catch sight of him in his boxer briefs. He’s only semi-hard and still huge, and I’m wondering whether or not to be insulted that undressing me hasn’t gotten him more excited, until he says, “God, you’re fucking gorgeous.” Then he takes my towel, pulling it free from me.
His touch is unhurried as he gently dries every drop of rain left on my skin. This is not the frantic rush of a man desperate to have sex, it’s the practiced hand of someone who knows he has all the time he needs and is planning to maximize every moment.
Once he’s done with my body, he wraps a corner of the towel around his fingers and pats my face dry. The motion is tender, as is the way his hand moves to the back of my head, tugging me closer until there’s barely a hair's breadth between us.
I’m not sure what it is about the moment that has a lump forming in my throat. Maybe it’s the way he’s not trying to rush me for his own pleasure. Maybe it’s the way his gruff voice and striking looks didn’t prepare me for the gentleness of his touch. Maybe it’s that having sex with a stranger is new territory.
Whatever it is, it’s an emotion I don’t really want to deal with right now, so I clear my throat to make the lump go away.His eyebrows dip as he gazes down at me. “Having second thoughts?”
“Not a chance. But you’re still soaking wet, and it defeats the purpose of drying me off if you’re just going to get me wet again.”
The way he snickers in response and says, “You’ll be wet, all right,” makes me laugh too. It’s the break in the heaviness of the moment that I so desperately needed.
Reaching past him, I grab the dry towel where it sits on the end of the bed, and go about drying him off. My heart is pounding as I run the towel over his muscular frame. The white terry cloth is a stark contrast to his deep olive skin and the smattering of dark hair across his chest. When the towel hits his abs, he flexes and lets out a low laugh, and my eyes are stuck on the eight-pack he’s sporting, even as he quietly says, “Sorry, I’m a bit ticklish.”
I glance up, my eyebrows lifted slightly in surprise. “Are you now?” I don’t know why this very natural reaction is surprising to me, but there’s something about a guy who’s easily over six feet, with ropes of muscle wrapping around his entire body, letting out what’s damn near a giggle.
“I am.” His fingers skim my sides, from my hips up along the sides of my breasts. “You’re not?”
“Not really,” I say, conveniently leaving out that my feet are so ticklish that I die laughing any time they’re touched. It makes pedicures incredibly awkward.
His voice is gruff when he asks, “Am I dry enough for your liking?”
Realizing that I only dried his arms, chest, and abdomen before I stopped to stare at his body, I reach up to his shoulder and turn him around to dry his back. “I’ll let you know when you are.”
When my fingers dip into the waistband of his boxers, he lets out a hiss of air, then a groan as my fingers move to the front ofhis hips so I can pull the elastic out enough that it won’t catch on his dick. As soon as I’ve pushed them down to his knees, he’s reaching behind him and grabbing the towel from my hands and pushing his own boxers off his legs. There’s no trace of the gentleness he showed me, just quick efficiency as he dries himself off before turning to face me.
As tempted as I am to look down and see if he’s as big as I suspect, my stomach flips as nerves take hold. I keep my eyes focused on his chest.
He steps so close that the evidence of his arousal is pushing against my stomach. When he brings his hands to my neck and gently tips my chin up with his thumbs so I’m forced to look at him, I finally exhale. It’s not only longing that I see in his eyes, there’s a softness, too. Not nerves, like he probably sees in my eyes, but a tenderness I’m still not expecting, even though he keeps revealing it.
“Are you sure about this?” he asks. “Because it’s not too late to change your mind. It’s never too late...”
I close my eyes, breathing deeply and enjoying the way he smells earthy, like rain, and spicy, like the ginger and rum from his drink. “I’m sure.”
