I let my gaze stay warm and open. It isn’t easy. A part of me wants to carry him to the bed and memorize every inch of him with my mouth.
I know I could make him feel so good.
My good boy.
I could make him beg for me.
Desire shoots through me when I think of him leaning into my touch for safety and comfort.
It’s the hottest goddamn thing, the way he trusts me.
I force myself to concentrate.
Antonio steps into the stall and pushes a button.
The water hits him, and I watch his shoulders finally drop. It plasters his dark curls against his forehead and slides over the lean line of his shoulders.
I keep my gaze above his waist, though I’m finding it hard not to stare where his happy trail leads to.
His breath stutters as he spots the shelf.
“There’s lube next to the shampoo,” I tell him, my voice growing rough.
He hesitates, then pumps some into his hand. Stealing a glance at me, he starts to stroke himself. His eyelashes flutter.
The air in the stall turns thick and humid.
I’m painfully hard.
“You’re so beautiful,” I say.
His gaze flicks to me, then to the bulge in my trousers, then back again.
His throat bobs.
“Keep going. I’m right here with you.”
The sound he makes at my words is small and unguarded. He closes his eyes, trying to find a rhythm.
I undress and step in, explaining what I’m doing.
I stay at the back. I don’t want to crowd him. I won’t touch him unless he asks.
Every few seconds his eyes flicker toward me.
I see the moment he loses his place—his grip tightens, his breathing turns shallow and uneven.
He speeds up, then slows down, trying to find the “right” way to do this.
Then he freezes.
His hand goes still.
His lips press together to stop a tremor.
He looks at me, and his eyes are overwhelmed, pleading, and devastatingly honest.
I see it happen, the exact moment when it becomes too much for him to carry.
