"Showered with anyone." I am pink to my hairline. The water on my face hides exactly none of it. "Never. Not even—nothing close. I don't really know what I'm doing here."
He is quiet for a beat.
Then his other hand—not the one on my hip—comes up and cups the side of my jaw, his thumb at my lower lip, and the smirk has gone somewhere I can't see.
"Yeah, baby. I figured."
"...you figured."
"Mm. Easy thing to figure."
"Why didn't you—"
"Because watching you work it out is half the point."
I work the soap down, slow, mapping him. The dip below his ribs where his stomach starts. The faint scar on his side I have never seen out of clothes. The hard flat plane of his abdomen. The fine dark line of hair below his navel that I have seen the top of a dozen times when his shirt rode up and have studiously not stared at.
"What's this scar," I ask, palm passing over it.
"Sixteen. Knife fight."
"You—what?"
"Long story. I won."
"That's not a—"
"Lower,Carter."
"I'm asking about a knife wound—"
"Ask me about it later. Right now my cock is two inches from your hand and I have been waiting fourteen hours. Lower."
Heat punches through me.
It is not the words. It is the casual of them—knife wound and hard cock all wrapped in one. He's so sexy and untouchable and yet, I'm touching him. And he wants me too. My breath catches in my throat. My cock jerks against his thigh hard enough that he feels it.
His pupils blow wider. The smirk flattens into something hungrier.
"Don't go soft on me now."
"I'm not going soft."
"Hmm. Hand says otherwise."
"Zero."
"Yeah."
"What are we doing."
"You are washing me."
"That is not—"
"And then I am going to suck your cock in this shower until you can't see straight. That's the deal. You do a good job, I do a good job."
"Did you actually rehearse that sentence?"
