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“You’re seriously following me in here?” Drew asks over his shoulder as he turns on the water and adjusts the temperature.
I, who am already taking off my shirt, give him a look that I hope says I’m not letting him out of my sight. Especially not in here.
“Fine.” He stands straight and pulls his shirt off, too.
We watch each other as the water heats, and we undress. “Were you alone last night?” I ask.
“Were you?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Answer the question.”
“I went to break up with Jericho.”
I pause midway through shoving my jeans down my legs and look up at him, nearly stumbling into the vanity. “What?”
“I told you I would if I had some free time.”
“So, you did it?”
“I did,” he says.
“After you told me you never wanted to see me again?”
“I don’t think I said that.”
“That’s what it felt like.”
He gives me a weak excuse for a smirk. “You’re such an only child sometimes.”
I frown at him. “I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean, but I guess I have to take your word for it.”
His pants drop before mine do, and I find myself at eye level with his semi. With my mouth suddenly watering, I swallow and try to be casual while inside I’m bursting into flames.
We haven’t been hooking up long enough for me to take the fact that he has a beautiful dick for granted—nor long enough for me to feel like I’m not doing something I shouldn’t be doing. It doesn’t feel taboo on the same level that screwing a cousin would feel, but fucking a man does still feel illicit, and something about that gets me very hard, very fast. Can a cock be a fetish? Is that a thing?
When I straighten up, he stares down at mine like he’s asking himself a similar question. Then he turns to the shower again and shows me his ass.
I rub a hand over the back of my neck, already sweating in the increasingly steamy room.
“Not much space in here,” he says.
Not a problem for me. It means I’ll have plenty of excuses to brush up against that perfect body of his. It’s been a matter of hours, and I feel as touch starved as a child who was left alone in the woods for a year.
“I don’t mind,” I say, but I’m not sure my voice carries over the noise of the water.
Naked, I walk over to him, running a hand down his spine and waiting for him to look at me. When he does, I’m instantly leaning in to press my mouth to his, my hands driving through his hair. He sucks me into a deep, knee-melting kiss where I swear I can taste his relief. I have no doubt mine’s rolling off me in waves.
Twenty minutes ago, the idea of winding up here was so remote I couldn’t even let myself think about it, but I’m so, so glad I didn’t give up. This kiss alone makes it worth it. I send one of my hands down to grasp his cock, but he catches my wrist before I get a good hold.
“Easy, now. What’s the rush?”
I bite my lip and scowl, frustrated and feeling called out by the question. The “rush” is that he implied we don’t work, and I want to remind him—assure him—that we do. “Don’t make fun of me.”
“Just get in the shower.” He gives me a nudge in the hip, and I step over the edge of the bathtub and into the warm stream of water.
He follows and pulls the clear curtain closed. Stubbornly, I face the shower head, push water through my hair, and scrub at my face.
As I sulk, he crowds close to me, soaping up my chest as his cock twitches against my ass. “I thought I was the one who needed freshening up,” he says.
