When Ames remains silent, I continue. “Come on, Ames. You wanna be clean, I’m here to help.”
We’ve been naked around each other plenty. In locker rooms, at the river in the summer. Thisshouldn’tbe a big deal for either of us.
Of course, now it is, for me. But I’m on my best behavior.
I refuse to notice how my hands shake as I help him ease his shirt over his head.
Ames has bruises I haven’t seen. Dark purple blooms across his back, like he was dropped on something solid—which I guess he was. And that reminder of how close I came to losing him makes it impossible to resist the urge to trace the bruise with my thumb.
Ames shivers. “I’m… chilly. We should, ah… get a move on.”
“Yeah.” I help him stand on one foot, then bend to help him shuck his sweatpants. When I reach for the waistband of his boxers, his good hand shoots out and catches my wrist.
I freeze. “Problem?”
“N-no.” His voice comes out high and choky. He clears his throat and moves his hand away. “Guess you’ve seen it all before.”
I have, but not like this. Not in my bathroom. Not when I’m the one slowly pulling fabric down his hips while he watches. Not when I’m thinking about all the ways I’d like to get him dirty before I clean him up.
This is very fucking different.
I help him step out of his boxers, and for a second, I let myself look—really look. He’s soft and uncut, resting heavy against his thigh, and I have to swallow before forcing my attention to getting him settled on the shower bench.
I’m acutely aware that my underwear’s barely hiding my reaction… and I decide I don’t care if he sees. Iwanthim to.
When I glance up, Ames’s gaze is traveling slowly over my chest, my stomach,lower.
He catches himself and looks away quickly, color rising in his cheeks and his good hand moving to cover his own cock.
How long has he looked at me that way? How many times have I missed it because I wasn’t looking for it?
I adjust the shower spray, aiming it at his back. The water sluices down his muscles and dampens his curls.
“I’ll start with your back,” I say, reaching for the soap.
The first slide of my hands over his skin makes him suck in a sharp breath.
“Hurt?” I ask.
“N-no,” he nearly moans. “Feels… really good.”
I work my way down his back, trying to stay clinical and detached but failingepically. His skin’s warm and slick, and I can feel the tension in his muscles, the way his breathing changes. When I dip my fingers to the small of his back, just above the cleft of his ass, he makes a sound low in his throat.
“I’m just… getting the soap everywhere,” I murmur. “To be thorough.”
“Thorough,” he repeats. “Good.”
When I come around to his front, I kneel on the wet tile between his legs and…Jesus Christ. Water streams down his chest, catching on the smattering of dark hairs, his tense stomach muscles, and his hand still trying valiantly to cover his cock.
It’s impossible not to see his dick is hard now, flushed and full, andbeggingfor my hand.
I swipe my hands over his torso and try to avoid looking—let alonetouching—anything lower.
Icannottouch him right now, not like that, no matter how much I want to. Not while he’s injured and uncomfortable, not while there’s so much we still have to discuss, not while I’m still engaged, not when—as far as I know—his reaction is just a biological reaction to stimuli that has nothing to do with me in particular.
Ames doesn’t seem to have any compunctions about looking, though his looks are still furtive and sneaky. I can feel his gaze on my cock—hotter than the water, heavierthan gravity—and it’s making me even harder. I’m a fucking compass pointing north, and my balls are tight and aching.
I keep expecting him to say something—Ames never misses an opportunity to call me on something—but he doesn’t. And fuck knowsI’mnot gonna talk about it. So the tension between us builds hotter and thicker than the steam from the shower.
