Time to get creative.
Raising my arms above my head, I bend my back, stretching my body and letting out a suggestive moan. Lowering my right arm, I rub my left pec, massaging the muscle.
“Whatever it is you think you’re doing, you’re wasting your time and mine. I told you I’m not gay.”
His voice sounds more calm and controlled than I would’ve hoped.
I meet his gaze. “Bet if I ate your ass you’d change your mind.”
His composure breaks with the slight parting of his lips.
Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. Especially considering he doesn’t attack me for the offer.
And, yeah, that was definitely an offer.
Survival flirting.
That’s a thing.
Right?
Turning my back on him, I approach the shower before he can see the smirk on my face and change his mind and attack me after all. I unzip my jeans and lower them to my ankles, bending over to give him a nice view of my bare ass while I’m at it. I stopjust short of shaking it for him.
There’s such a thing as overkill, after all.
I step into the shower and turn the water on. It’s warm, mercifully so, and I sag under it with a groan before I can stop myself. A week of grime starts sluicing off me, spiraling down the drain like proof that timehasbeen passing after all.
As I hang my head and let the water rain over me, I notice my dick is a little hard. It started filling when he grabbed me. I have a thing for being manhandled, okay? I can’t help it. It doesn’t help that I still find the man attractive. A total asshole, sure. A kidnapper, yeah. But undeniably hot.
I wrap my hand around my cock and give it a stroke. I don’t even care that he’s watching me. Iknowhe is. In fact, it kind of makes me hotter. I can feel his eyes on my back as I buck into my fist and let out an obscene moan.
“What are you doing?”
His voice is still infuriatingly unfazed.
Does he have to always be in control of every-fucking-thing?
“I always bust a nut in the shower,” I say without an ounce of shame. “You going to ruin my ritual?”
“Cason.”
It’s the first time he’s said my name, and he says it like a warning. Had he used the name I prefer, in his stern, deep voice, it might’ve encouraged me to keep going. However, it does the opposite, and my dick starts to soften in my hand. So I let go.
“Don’t call me that,” I say as I pump soap out of the dispenser attached to the wall, wishing I was pumping cum out of my cock instead.
“Oh. Did I finally find a nerve? Not all brat, huh?”
For the first time in a week, there’s proof he’s actually capable of being amused. Unfortunately, it always seems to be at my expense.
“Shut up,” I grumble.
“That’s your name, isn’t it? Why shouldn’t I call you that?”
I spin around to fully face him, staring at him through the glass. There are suds across the front of my body but not nearly enough to cover my cock. Not that I care. The hard set of his jaw makes it clear that it takes a conscious effort for him to not look, andthatis satisfying in its own kind of way.
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
Our gazes remain locked with no other words spoken for so long that I start washing myself again, lathering the soap over my skin. I don’t break eye contact as I brush one hand over my chest, rubbing the suds around my nipples while my other hand scrubs the soap across my stomach, slowly traveling lower.
