The morning peaks in a rush of heat and the sound of his name in my mouth. His fingers clutch at me like he’s afraid of floating away. I don’t let him. I wouldn’t.
And when he tenses in my arms and comes without either of us touching his cock, I go right with him, sinking my load deep into the warmth of him.
I catch my breath, inhaling the scent of his sweat-damp hair. I should feel way more exhausted after last night and this morning.
But I don’t. Not even close. Maybe that’s how this new clean Kys works. Maybe it’s a miracle. Or maybe it’s a problem. Either way, I’m reaping the damn benefits and prepping him for another round before we decide to wash up.
***
A shower stall’s barely big enough for one person, so stuffing two’s a mistake.
But Stan insists. He grins and says we’ll “fit two in easily.”
Now, I’m pressed against cold tiles while warm water barely hits my back, and the rest of him takes every inch of space like he owns the stall.
He’s singing some song under the spray, eyes closed, dark hairplastered to his forehead.
It’s kinda annoying how he looks soalive, that it makes my chest feel too full, just like how we’re crammed in here.
“Pass me the shampoo,” he says.
“You’re using the bottle as a mic.”
“Oh, right. Wow, you must’ve fucked my brains out.”
If he looked my way, he’d see I’m red to my ears.
Still singing, he squeezes shampoo into his palm and starts working it through his hair, making a mess of white foam. The water runs over his broad shoulders, down his sculpted chest, cutting paths of hard muscles through the suds.
His eyes are slid shut. Mine are too for a second, breathing in how good he smells. Sweet and clean. Smoky and filthy. My mind almost wanders out of my control, but while he’s keeping himself busy, I open my eyes and let myself look.
At his left pec, where there’s a tattoo. A cursiveEinked right over his heart. Stark dark against his skin.
I’m not jealous of a letter.I’m not.
I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t look. I do anyway.
He stands under the water with his shoulders relaxed while suds trail down his body. My eyes take in every hard line of muscle, every ripple of his movements. He’s just washing up, but he looks damn tempting doing it.
But my eyes keep dragging back to that ink.
He breathes out a low sigh and tilts his head back, throat exposed. Foam runs down his neck before the water takes it.
“You’re staring, babe,” he says.
My pulse skips. “Your eyes are closed.”
He grins, eyes still closed. “Yeah, but you stare loud.”
“I’m not staring.”
“Yes, you are.”
He keepswashing his hair with his eyes shut, still smiling, still giving me zero room to move.
Then he whispers, “You can look at it. I don’t mind.”
I frown. “I wasn’t looking at anything.”
