ht in the
eye, I squirt some of the sweet-smelling gel into my palm
and hold my hand up in front of his chest, waiting for an
answer to my unspoken question. His eyes widen, then he
gives me an almost imperceptible nod.
Gently I place my hand on his sternum and start to rub
the soap into his skin. His chest rises as he inhales sharply,
but he stands stock-still. After a beat, his hands clasp my
hips, but he doesn’t push me away. He watches me warily,
his look intense more than scared, but his lips are parted
as his breathing increases.
“Is this okay?” I whisper.
“Yes.” His short, breathy reply is almost a gasp. I am
reminded of the many showers we’ve had together, but the
one at the Olympic is a bittersweet memory. Well, now I
can touch him. I wash him using gentle circles, cleaning my
man, moving to his underarms, over his ribs, down his flat
firm belly, toward his happy trail, and the waistband of his
pants.
“My turn,” he whispers and reaches for the shampoo,
shifting us out of range of the stream of water and squirting
some on to the top of my head.
I think this is my cue to stop washing him, so I hook
my fingers into his waistband. He works the shampoo into
my hair, his firm, long fingers massaging my scalp.
Groaning in appreciation, I close my eyes and give myself
over to the hea一venly sensation. After all the stress of the
evening, this is just what I need.
evening, this is just what I need.
He chuckles and I open one eye to find him smiling
down at me. “You like?”
“Hmm . . .”
He grins. “Me, too,” he says and leans over to kiss my
forehead, his fingers continuing their sweet, firm kneading
of my scalp.
“Turn round,” he says authoritatively. I do as I’m told,
and his fingers slowly work over my head, cleansing,
relaxing, loving me as they go. Oh, this is bliss. He reaches
for more shampoo and gently washes the long tresses
down my back. When he’s finished, he pulls me back
under the shower.
“Lean your head back,” he orders quietly.
I willingly comply, and he ca
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