“In reality there appears to be quite a lot of logistical admin.”
“Ah,” he says. “So this is less film montage and more health and safety briefing.”
“Exactly.”
His smile lingers another second before his gaze shifts towards the wet room.
The steam is starting to gather now.
So is the silence.
Because joking about it is one thing.
Actually getting undressed in front of each other is another.
Philip turns away first before bending to slip off his shoes.
By the time he straightens, the mirror has started to cloud at the edges.
His gaze catches mine in it.
Neither of us looks away.
I move in behind him.
Slowly.
Giving him every chance to tell me to stop.
He doesn’t.
My hands settle at the buttons of his shirt, brushing the warmth of his stomach beneath the parted fabric as I work them loose one by one.
His breath comes faster, shallow little bursts. The shirt parts, revealing the pale expanse of his chest, the soft swell of his belly, the dark blond trail of hair that disappears into his trousers.
My fingers graze over his skin as I push the fabric apart, and he shudders, a full-body reaction that makes my cock twitch hard behind my fly.
“Mark,” he says, voice low.
“Yeah?”
“What are you—”
I press my lips to the side of his neck before he can finish. His skin’s warm, salty, and he tastes like sweat and that cologne, like something I want to sink my teeth into.
His pulse jumps against my mouth, and he makes a sound that goes straight to my dick. My hands slide up, spreading over his chest, thumbs brushing over his nipples. They’re already hard, little peaks against my calloused skin, and when I pinch them, just lightly, he jerks forward with a sharp inhale.
My tongue flicks out, tasting the sweat beading at the base of his throat, and his head tips back against my shoulder. The angle’s perfect. It lets me see the way his eyelids flutter, the part of his lips, the way his teeth sink into his bottom lip like he’s trying to hold back.
I don’t let him.
My hand slides down, over the softness of his stomach, the waistband of his trousers. His breath stutters when my fingers dip beneath the fabric, when I find the hot, heavy weight of his cock straining against his boxers. He’s hard, thick, the head already damp with precum when I wrap my hand around him. His hips jerk forward, helpless, and I stroke him once, slow, from root to tip.
“Fuck,” he chokes out, his hands slapping against the sink for balance. “Mark, I—”
I turn him around.
His back hits the door with a thud, and I crowd into his space, my body pinning him there. His eyes are blown wide, pupils swallowing the hazel, his lips wet and parted. I can see the pulse in his throat, the way his chest rises and falls too fast, the flush spreading down his neck, his chest. He’s so sexy like this.
