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“You’re fucking gorgeous, Blair. How every man on campus isn’t lining up to fuck or be fucked by you is beyond me.”
His hand stills, my erection pulsing in his hand in protest, and he presses his thumb to the bundle of nerves on the underside of my dick then drags it along the flared head in a featherlight touch that leaves me squirming.
That’s when I pull away, because he’s getting close to my hair trigger, the thing that will have me coming in seconds, and I’ve never let another man find it before.
His brow pinches in worry, but I smile and grip my dick, willing it to calm down.
“We should shower.”
He takes my diversion for what it is with a smile and a nod, and I’m even more grateful when the awkwardness doesn’t settle in. Atlas pulls back the curtain, motions for me to step inside, then crowds my back because the bathtub is tiny. Hot water sprays down my front, and when I tip my head back, I meet Atlas’ shoulder.
“Sorry it’s so cramped.”
A dollop of what I imagine has to be shampoo lands on my head, followed by Atlas’ large fingers scrubbing and scraping along my scalp to rub it in. It makes my chest twinge and my eyes burn. No one has washed my hair for me since before Mom died.
“Don’t apologize. I don’t mind the closeness.”
I close my eyes and settle against his chest, letting his hands guide my head in whatever direction he needs. They fall to my neck, digging into the muscle and rubbing circles over my collarbone. We’re silent as he spreads soap over my body, having me turn around so he can carefully do so to my back while tipping my head to take small kisses from my mouth.
The shower is warm, but I find myself shivering under every pass of Atlas’ hands, every comforting squeeze. He turns me again so my back is to his chest as he travels further south. It’s a gentle pass over my cock and balls, a kiss to my shoulder, and then his hands dip between my thighs, and I widen my stance to give him access. A finger presses on my taint from behind, slipping into my crack and working the suds over my rim. I don’t think another person has ever touched me this intimately before, this caringly.
As much as I’m enjoying the attention, exhaustion is starting to wash over me, and I’m not sure how much longer I can stand here. I gently ease his hands away and grab one of the wash cloths in the corner, lathering it in soap and dragging it across Atlas’ chest.
“We should talk,” I say.
His brows draw together, but he nods. “What about?”
“I’m wary about doing anything sexual,” I start, and his brows fly up in surprise. “Earlier. We could have stopped. I would have been okay with that. You looked upset when we finished, and… that’s not really something a guy wants to make his ‘boyfriend’ feel.”
Our chests brush as I reach around to scrub down his back, and the feeling of his hand sinking into my hair and scraping lightly over my scalp has me tilting back for a kiss that he readily supplies.
“I wanted to get you there,” he mumbles against my mouth. “You looked so sexy and needy; I wanted to be the reason you came.”
A fresh wave of shudders roll through my body. “I think you’re going to be the reason I come for a while.” I don’t mean for the words to slip out, but they make him smile, so I don’t regret it.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t as excited. I enjoyed it; I really did.”
“Atlas.” I step back, showerhead beating down on me as I lean my head back to rinse the soap out, then I fix him with a stern look. “Don’t ever apologize for that. Sex and intimacy are only things you should do when you want, and I don’t want you feeling pressured to do that with me.”
His face looks pained as he scratches at his temple, lip trapped between his teeth. “I don’t. Feel pressured, I mean. I wanted it. Hell, I want it again right now. I just want to touch you and make you come and see you breathless and flustered. I just don’t… feel the need to have it reciprocated.”
Even though my body is prepared to beg to have his hands on me again, I push the desire back. I maneuver Atlas into switching positions with me to rinse the suds from him, then have him put his back to me so I can scrub the shampoo into his hair.
“You want to touch me, but don’t want me to touch you?”
He shakes his head. “No, I want you to touch me. I just don’t necessarily feel the need to orgasm. Is that weird?”
“Hm. What about the phone call?”
“Phone call?”
I turn him again and dunk him under the water, feeling the rumble of his laugh through his chest as he shakes the extra out of his face.
“The phone sex, big guy. I remember your voice. You chased that orgasm like it was your damn salvation.”
His lips tip up and his eyes drop, the shiest I think I’ve ever seen a man who is currently baring his birthday suit in front of his pretend boyfriend.
“I’m not sure I understand it myself. I’ve noticed it when I jerk off, too. Sometimes I’ll touch myself for a few minutes, and then just stop. Others it’s like I need it so bad I might pass out. The um… the former is more satisfying, usually.”
