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I have none. My mouth opens anyway.

“W-water pressure.”

His head tilts. Not much, but enough to make me wish the wall would accept my body as an offering and close around me.

“You?” he says.

Astonished and furious at once.

I swallow. “Me?”

So innocent. So ridiculous. So fucking over.

Clint steps closer. The hallway light catches on his shoulders, his stomach, the hardness directly in front of me. I try not to look down. I fail quickly, then look back up like a man with no more excuses.

His eyes move over me too. Face, chest, towel. Looking as a form of punishment.

He braces one hand against the wall beside my head. Then the other. The space darkens as his body moves in. I press harder into the wall, though there’s nowhere left to go.

Clint’s breath hits my face.

“This whole time.”

It’s not a question.

I say nothing.

His jaw twitches. His eyes drop before lifting. For one suspended moment, I think he might hit me.

Instead, his voice goes low and rough.

“Get down there.”

The words don’t make sense at first. Not until my knees start to bend. Not until I am sliding down the wall, towel loosening at my hips.

He’s breathing heavy. His body is hot next to my face.

Get down there.

He takes a small step back, offering space. An exit, if I want it.

I should stop. I should say his name.

I should explain something before this—his cock, my lips, our heat—is the only communication left to us.

But then I’m squatting, and Clint is above me, and every thought I have left collapses into the space between us.

His cock is intimidating up close, in keeping with the rest of him. Long, thick, already wet at the tip. His hand curls against the wall, knuckles tight. His chest rises and falls too fast.

I look up and find his jaw, the underside of his chin. I can’t find his eyes.

“Paul,” he says.

It isn’t soft or kind. It’s almost a warning.

I lean forward, my breath touching him.

The first taste is salt and heat.