I see him.
Hair slicked back, even darker when it’s wet. Water running down his face, catching on his lashes, tracing the sharp line of his jaw, down his throat, his chest—
Fuck.
My gaze drops before I can stop it. That drop of water—watching it slide lower, lower—my heart’s pounding, desperate. I hate it. But I can’t stop following it.
Lower.
Lower.
And he catches me.
Again.
Only this time—
He doesn’t tease me.
The air shifts. Electric. Dangerous. Like I crossed some line and there’s no way back. He looks at me like he’s starving. Not amused. Curiosity, heat—all focused on me, pinning me in place. Slowly, he smiles, as if he’s figured something out. Like maybe I’m not as untouched as I pretend to be. It’s not friendly. It’s a dare.
He starts stroking himself. Slow and deliberate, like he wants me to see it all. And I watch. I still can't look away. His cock is so fucking hard, flushed red at the tip, the shaft long and thick with veins standing out against the pale skin. His hand moves with this practiced, lazy confidence, thumb rolling over the head, spreading precum down the length. He palms the base, squeezes, strokes up again, all while his eyes burn into me, daring me to react. I'm burning up. My mouth's gone dry, and I can barely breathe.
He doesn't say a word. Just keeps working his cock, each motion slower, filthier, like he's showing me exactly how he likes it. The muscles in his forearm flex with every twist of his wrist.Water beads on his skin, catching the light, slipping down to gather at his balls, his thighs.
He's fucking beautiful. A literal wet dream.
I want to hate him for it. I want to look away. But my own dick is stiff, leaking, so hard its almost painful. I wonder if he notices, if he can see how bad I want this—how bad I want him. I wonder if he knows I'm about to lose it, just from watching him.
And then he moves.
Steps out of his stall, water still streaming down his body. It clings to him—muscle, skin. Every line of him too sharp, too real. His eyes never leave mine. He walks straight toward me, dripping and shameless. Everything in me goes molten—anger, want, confusion, all churning together until I can’t tell them apart. The stall feels too tight, too hot. I still can’t breathe.
Even though we’re alone, it feels reckless. Stupid.
I hate how bad I want him, how much it clouds my judgment.
“What if someone sees?” The words slip out, soft, shaky.
He’s so close I can feel the heat rolling off of him. His voice drops, dark, vibrating through me. “No one’s here,” he repeats. “We can do whatever you want.” Promise and threat all at once.
Steam curls between us. My nerves are on fire. I feel every inch of him without touching—his chest, his mouth, the way his hand brushes water off my shoulder. Then his lips find my collarbone, warm and wet and biting. It sends a shock straight to my core.
Something snaps. I grab him by the throat and shove him under the spray. Water crashes over us. My mouth finds his, rough, taking, desperate—I drink down his gasp, biting his lip, tongues clashing, slick and hot.
“This doesn’t change anything,” I growl, voice ragged against his ear. I fist my hand in his hair, yank his head back, sink myteeth into his neck just to feel him shudder. My fingers map his body—hard muscle, soft skin, the places I’ve wanted to touch for too long. He gives in. Opens up. Lets me take what I want, and fuck, I want it all. His moan vibrates through the stall, makes my pulse spike.
“Fuck, Jamie.”
"Is this what you wanted, Rhys?" My lips brush the shell of his ear, and I feel his sharp intake of breath, the shiver that runs through him like a current. My hand slides down, wrapping around him, hot, heavy, pulsing with need against my palm.
I stroke him, achingly slow, squeezing enough to make him groan, my thumb circling his soft head, smearing the bead of precum gathering there.
I touch him just how he showed me.
His hips jerk helplessly, his body already betraying him, thighs tensing as he tries to stay still and fails. “God, yes, Jamie,” he breathes, eyes dark, mouth open. I work him more, learn the shape of him, the rhythm that makes his breath hitch and his body tremble. I can feel the power in my hands, the intoxicating rush of making him fall apart. I stroke him rougher, faster, watching as he loses control, his head falling back against the water, eyes fluttering closed.
"Look at me," I demand, my voice harsh. His eyes snap open, locking onto mine. "Don't look away. I want to see you." He nods, panting, his chest heaving. I tighten my grip, twist my wrist on the upstroke, and he cries out. He's so hard for me, so completely at my mercy. I lean down, bite his jaw, his throat, leaving marks while my hand works him faster, the sound filthy and obscene in the silence.
