“No. No, actually, I’d like you to stay. I’d offer to let you join me, but I’m not sure I’ve got the space.” He smiles, voice gentle and face close enough to mine that I can see speckles of aquamarine around his pupils. My entire body thrums from the nearness of his. “I’ll try to keep the singing to a minimum.”
I nod, hearing the truth and realizing that maybe what I was reading as discomfort was really arousal. Not surprising that I wouldn’t recognize it. I settle back against the counter, watching as Oliver reaches into the shower to turn on the water, hand flat under the stream to test the temperature. The slope of his back is speckled here and there with moles and little freckles, his forearms and the tops of his shoulders darker than the rest of him. A higher concentration of freckles in those areas, too, Inotice. Tiny little blessings from the sun.
Water on, he turns to face me, our eyes meeting across the expanse of the bathroom. Unlike the pair waiting next to the sink, his briefs are black and plain. Oliver’s gaze has a slightly challenging look to it, and he hasn’t moved, watching me as though I’m the one who has to come over and undress him the rest of the way. Slowly, I do so with my eyes.
Thumbs hooked into the waistband of the briefs, he bends and slides them off. Slower than he removed the rest of his clothes, but not by much. His movements are caught between economical and performative, conscious of me watching but fighting the muscle memory that is leading him through his routine. The sound of the water splatters the shower walls above the soft sound of him humming.
The briefs are tossed in the direction of the hamper, but my eyes stay on Oliver as he straightens. The press of his mouth is playful as he looks at me, as though testing to see just how much of this I’ll be able to take before I strip down and join him. Little does he know I’m well practiced in restraint.
He angles his back to me as he steps under the spray, reaching behind and sliding the door closed just enough that water doesn’t splash out but steam can still escape. The bathroom is almost completely silent—Oliver’s humming low enough that the shower nearly drowns it out. Somehow, the sound of the water is slightly obscene, twisting me up and making my chest ache. If he were singing something, the bathroom would feel more relaxed. He never gets the lyrics to songs right.
But he’s not singing. He’s standing with his head tippedback, water sluicing down the front of him before dripping onto the floor—a staccato rhythm to accompany the low vibrations coming from his throat. Every inch of me feels too small, like a six-foot-two person shoved into a five-foot-six skin. My dick throbs, and I’m starting to think I might actually have to partially undress lest I give myself an injury.
I close my eyes briefly when he grabs the soap, suddenly grateful that his back is to me and I can’t watch his hand slide over his slick chest. The view from behind is enough, and frankly, I’m enjoying the tease. Enjoying the way suds drip down his legs and mix with the water swirling around the drain. Enjoying the way the glass has fogged up, obscuring just enough of him to be enticing.
His movements stutter when he has to clean his underarms, a tiny display of the nerves I know are still burrowed beneath the surface. I smile to myself, finding it a little cute that he’s worried the sexy routine will be ruined by something as natural as soaping up his armpits. It makes me want to kiss him.
His skin is pink from the heat of the shower, hair a damp, dark mess plastered to the top of his head. He angles away slightly, hips more directly facing the wall, as his hands slide south. I have to close my eyes again when he bends to reach his legs. I’ll be the one needing a shower next at this rate. Not to mention fresh clothes after I come in my jeans.
By the time he turns around to face me, the walls of the shower are foggy with steam, and more of him is left to the imagination than on display. Even so, I can see how hard he is, and my own pelvis throbs in response. This maybe wasn’t thebest idea, because now he’s going to finish up, and then what? We go into the bedroom and have sex? I wouldn’t even know where to start.
I try not to stare at the small thatch of hair between his legs, dark from the water. I try not to stare at the red flush of his dick or imagine how the weight might feel in my palm. How it might feel inside me. I keep my fingers curled against the lip of the counter, reminding myself to stay put. It’s hot in here and so much of me aches with want.
Oliver washes his hair before tipping his head back, eyes closed, to rinse, long fingers sliding through the strands, neck bared. I watch, nervous system snapping with so much electricity I’m probably a fire hazard, wondering what the next step is now that the washing is done. Rinsing finished, he moves a step forward, out from under the water, but doesn’t turn it off. Instead, eyes on mine, he reaches down and touches himself. His arm is barely moving, strokes slow, the path slick with water.
“You could join me,” he offers softly, but doesn’t move to open the shower door.
As though all I was waiting for was permission, my fingers drop to the button on my jeans. There is no space in me for embarrassment or nerves. Nothing in my mind but Oliver. I shove my pants and boxers down together, only far enough for my dick to spring free. Oliver—water streaming down his face in rivulets—licks his lips. I have to squeeze a hand around myself hard enough to hurt, desperately trying not to come.
It’s not even his hand that I watch as we stroke in time with one another, but his face. I watch the way his eyelids flutter andthe indent on his bottom lip as he bites it. I watch the strain in his shoulders and the way his chest moves as his breathing turns into pants. I watch the shape his mouth makes as he comes and groan with him as I follow, body straining for the release it’s been wanting since Oliver turned the water on.
My legs hurt like I’ve done something more strenuous than watch a man shower, and I’m grateful for the counter helping me remain upright. Oliver, who is standing on a slippery surface, puts a palm on the wall and turns off the water. I reach for his towel only to realize my hand is covered in cum and backtrack to the sink. I also take a moment to tuck myself back into my jeans, not embarrassed quite yet but feeling like walking around fully clothed with my dick hanging out would probably be the way to get there. I don’t waste time buttoning up, leaving my jeans open as I reach once more for the towel.
Oliver, having exited the shower silently, already has a hand on the bar. I tug the towel gently away and put it around his shoulders, heart thudding in a way that feels dangerous as his eyes meet mine. Mostly green, now, and bright above flushed cheeks. He’s naked and all wet and will be cold in a few minutes, but I lean down to kiss him anyway, wondering what it might be like to go chasing water droplets with my tongue.
“You’ll get wet,” he murmurs when I move closer. Not even bothering to comment on how littlethatwould matter, I kiss my way over to his ear and down his neck, making him laugh. Straightening, I drop my hands and watch as he towels dry—a different kind of tease than the one in the shower, and perhaps more dangerous, given his proximity. I can smell coconut on hisskin, like the soap he used was tropical, and I want even more badly to taste him than I did before.
Instead, I touch his hair, running my hands through the waves, soggy and cool from the shower. I’ve gone from a man who never touches anyone to someone who can’t keep their hands to themselves. It doesn’t hurt that Oliver is so receptive to it—leaning into me like a cat wanting its back scratched.
“That was fun,” he comments, dislodging my hand to bend and dry his feet. I huff a soft laugh, glad I’m not the only one who struggles with words on occasion.Fun.“Not going to be as enjoyable to shower on my own now, though. Might have to set up a tripod and livestream for you every evening.”
I meet his eye, and he laughs, hanging the towel around his neck and reaching for his clothes. The yellow panties are slipped on, an action I watch almost as avidly as I did him getting off in the shower. Oliver standing here naked was sexy, but there is something unquestionably sensual about the lace being there against his skin—an erotic mix of muscle and strength and beauty. It makes little sense to me, trying to understand why someone would dislike this. Carefully, I put a finger on his side and slide it down to his hip, teasing the fabric with the pad of my thumb.
“I like that,” Oliver whispers. I look up at him, worried for a moment that he’d been talking and I was too distracted by lace to notice. I’m very careful about never zoning out or ignoring him when he speaks. He adds, “When you look at me like that.”
“I like this,” I tell him, sliding my finger along his belly, tracing the fabric. His skin quivers, and I wonder for the firsttime in my life what sort of refractory period I have. “And you.”
He looks pleased as he finishes getting dressed, the yellow unfortunately disappearing under a pair of drab sweatpants as he hums a happy melody under his breath. Yawning, he hangs the damp towel back over the bar and stretches his arms over his head, hair a mess, expression loose and satisfied.
“Hungry?” he asks.
Chapter Fourteen
OLIVER
Iwatch the team of men and women walking along my roof from the driver’s seat of my car. I’d had high hopes for getting chores done today, but the noise was a lot more distracting than I thought it would be. Tapping a finger on my gear shift, I put the car in reverse and wave a goodbye at them. Nils is home, and when I asked if he wanted company, his reply had been a succinctalways. It felt like he’d reached through the phone and hugged me. So, half my kitchen packed up in the trunk, I drive the five minutes over to his place, harmonizing with Jimmy Buffett as I go.
Nils meets me out front as I drive up, walking down the front steps with a smile, dark strands of hair caught in the wind and dancing around his face. There’s a question in his eyes as I exit the car, and he reaches for the rear handle, knowing I brought stuff.
