He goes willingly, and even though I tell myself not to, my hand reaches up and cups the back of his neck, pushing him down. His body bends forward, his ass out, his hand holding on to that small towel for all its worth. I see myself in the mirror and note the pink tinge on my cheeks as I guide his head under the faucet. He sighs beneath the cool water, and I know that this will last far too long if I don’t help. So, I let my fingers thread through his hair, helping rinse away the massive amount of shampoo he put in it.
He has thick strands. Strands meant for clutching, for pulling.
For holding on to.
He shifts on his feet, letting out a soft moan. The sound echoesfrom the bowl of the sink to my groin, and I quickly pull my hand away.
I need to stop touching him.
I will stop touching him.
Caleb lurches slightly at the loss of contact, and that’s when it all goes sideways.
The towel he was hanging on to so diligently slips, leaving him completely exposed. He stands up, knocking his head on the faucet, and my gaze slips down to his soft cock hanging right between his legs. For just a second, just a glance, before I reach around him and right the towel.
It’s only then that I can breathe.
“Think you need bigger towels,” he tells me as my fingertips skirt the V of his hips. They burn. They positively throb.
“Agreed. Now hold on to this.”
I guide his hand to the towel, and his fingers curl around it.
“Sorry, man. I think I’m sick.” He’s watching me in the mirror, and I peer over at him. He looks flushed, and the bit of skin I touched felt warm.
I reach out and press the back of my fingers against his forehead and then drag them down to his cheek. Water is still beaded on his shoulders, some dripping from the wet strands of his hair.
“Mm, you’re burning up.”
“Told you. I never throw up from drinking. It’s a superpower.”
I arch an eyebrow at him and then bend down, grabbing another towel and placing it over his head. I towel him off as best I can, his soft, muffled sounds slipping through my defenses. No matter how hard I try to ignore them, they still find their way in, stirring something deep inside me.
“Let’s get you to bed,” I finally say, hanging up the damp towel and stepping out of the bathroom.
“Don’t know what I’m going to sleep on. I don’t have any extra sheets. Never got around to buying more.”
“You can use some of mine.”
He stills when he sees his nicely made bed, and I fold the sheets back, hinting at him to get in.
He doesn’t even hesitate, just drops his towel and slides in. My eyes land on his bare ass, and I was right. It’s perfect. Round and muscular.
I clench my jaw and turn my gaze away, tucking him in as he turns and inhales the scent of the pillowcase.
“Smells like you.”
I glance away, not wanting to see him run his cheek up and down it, grabbing on to it like he’s desperate for something more.
There can be nothing more.
“Here, take this,” I say as I reach over and grab the medication and a glass of water I set out for him. He takes it with shaky hands, and when I see how much he’s wobbling, I press the pills to his mouth, feel the warmth of his lips—wet, plush, impossibly perfect. When his gaze lifts to mine, those blue eyes are wide and dark, the color almost swallowed whole by his pupils.
I hear my throat click, and I can’t help myself. I shouldn’t, but I do. “Swallow.”
He nods and does as I say. And I watch it all—the way his throat clicks, the bob of his Adam’s apple. Something inside of me unfurls even more, and I know I’m fucked.
I’m playing with fire.
