I swear, I wanna just grab him and squeeze the life out of him when he's this happy. I feel that stupid warmth in my chest because of this evil nerd. Like my heart and my dick finally shake hands and go, "finally, bro, we agree on something."
Of course my brain is standing to the side, watching them, cackling. Because while my heart and my dick are celebrating, my brain is already picturing Rava on a plane.
My brain is that one loser kid in class that yells, "Miss, you forgot to give us homework," right when we're about to leave.
Fuck off. Canada is the homework I'm avoiding.
Because for a second, for a stupid, reckless, fragile second…I think that I'd do literally anything just to have this exact version of the future.
Him. Us. This chaos. Every single day. But I don't say it.
I just kiss his forehead, pull him tighter and walk us both toward the bathroom.
…
Rava steps under the water first. I watch his body in slow motion. My eyes are everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
I can't help it, I swear. I've never seen a body like this before. It's the combo that fucks me up. That bodywiththat skin. I know gym guys with big arms, big shoulders, all that shit, but they're so pumped with testosterone and whatever else that their skin is just rashes and red patches and madness.
His skin only has stretch marks. He makes me like them. I never cared about them before. Now they look like art on him.
Little pale lines scratching across his hips and thighs, like somebody designed them on purpose to make him look cooler.
I don't know how he does it. He's got the greatest skin I've ever seen. My dad would be proud of me right now. I'm finally complimenting someone other than myself.
Character development.
First time I wish the place was smaller. Tighter. I need him closer. Our eyes meet immediately. "You're staring," he says with a low voice.
"You're worth staring at." I don't even try to hide it. He bites back a smile, but his cheeks color. Even now. I reach for the body wash, flip the cap open with one hand. "Turn around."
He does, without question. I pour soap onto his sponge. Yeah, he has a sponge in my house now. That's a thing.
Because every time after sex we're both literally dripping, covered in sweat and cum, so we just get in the shower together to wash the sex off.
And then do it again two hours later. Balance.
I start scrubbing his back and his shoulders, pushing my body against his because I'm a menace. How am I supposed to behave when I have this tattoo in front of me?
I feel genuinely blessed. Like, who did I blackmail in a past life to end up being the one who gets to touch this body? He turns his head, and we lock eyes again. His lips are slightly parted. His breath hits my throat.
I trail my hands down to his hips, then up across his chest, pulling him gently back against me. Water slides between us, but we're skin to skin now.
"You do this with all your guests?" he whispers.
"Only the ones I want to ruin."
Not a single soul has entered this shower since I got this house. Ever. But I don't plan on telling him.
He laughs, but his hand finds my jaw, guiding my face until we're nose to nose. We don't kiss yet. His thumb brushes just under my bottom lip. "I like you like this," he says softly. "Warm. Quiet. Less asshole."
"Bold of you to say in my shower." I grin.
He smirks, but doesn't move away. My hands slide to his stomach, his skin twitching under my touch. He leans in like he might kiss me. Instead, he grabs the shampoo bottle and tips it over my head with an evil little smile.
"The fuck?"
"Payback."
