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***
“Hey, girl. Where are you? Wanna come over?” Joel watches me gather our soiled clothes as he calls Candy, standing naked by the kitchen table.
I forget myself for a second, gazing at him. Damn guy is built like a classical statue. Muscular legs, washboard abs, strong pecs, heavy biceps, broad shoulders—and then that fine face and blue eyes that currently look amused.
Shaking myself, I pick up his pants and start toward the bedrooms. He didn’t even ask me about calling Candy. He didn’t have to. There’s a secret understanding that we’d always make out together, all three of us, and that this was an exception.
I hope Candy understands.
Tension is coiling the muscles in my back. I force myself not to listen in to the phone call. I jump into the shower, sigh when the warm water hits my shoulders, relaxing them.
The memory of going down on Joel is running on a loop inside my head, and my cock makes a valiant effort to harden, but fails.
Too soon.
I soap myself up, turn my face into the spray, let the stress of the day seep away. Coming twice has sure helped, but it’s not enough to get my mind completely off the shitstorm that I feel is about to hit.
It would help more if I could have Joel’s mouth around my dick. His cock in my ass. If he made me come so hard I forgot my own name.
He was the one who kissed me and jacked me off today. Does this mean he’s not freaking out anymore? That he’s willing to give this liking-guys-as-well-as-girls thing a go?
Yeah, wishful thinking.
Then the bathroom door opens, and he strides inside, like we do this every day. Heh, don’t I wish. I expect him to grab something—or brush his teeth, whatever—but he slips into the shower stall without a word and grabs the soap and washcloth from me.
“Turn around,” he orders, and I obey before his command reaches my conscious mind, a shiver of pleasure going through me.
Uh oh. I’m fucked.
Any remaining doubt flees when he runs the washcloth from my neck down to the small of my back and I moan, bracing my hands on the tiles and dropping my head forward.
“J…” What is he doing to me? Do I know this guy?
The washcloth stops shy of the crack of my ass, instead sliding back up until it reaches the knots in my upper back. It smooths
over them, then it disappears and strong hands take its place, pressing into the knots expertly.
Oh fuck.
I bite my lip savagely to keep quiet as he massages my neck and upper back. He’s never done this before, but hell yeah. Didn’t know he had a knack for it, either. His thumbs press into a particularly tense spot and a groan escapes me.
Holy fuck, this is good. Different from sex, although my dick is still doing its best to stir at the sensation.
“You’re stiff like a motherfucker,” Joel mutters, and I drop my forehead on my arm, chuckling.
Stiff is what I’ll be eventually if he keeps this up.
Then his thumbs hit another spot and I shiver. “Fuck. You’re good at this.”
“I’m good at many things.”
“Arrogant bastard.”
“Fucking dipshit. I’m still not washing your hair, for the record.”
“Fuck you.” I elbow him in the gut, and he swears as he moves away to avoid me, snickering. “I can wash my own hair just fine.”
The sound of the doorbell cuts through our banter.
