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“Well, then, let me enjoy my kinks, Toby.”
I held his face in my hands and kissed him again. He was pliant and relaxed.
“I need a shower,” Alastair murmured. “You want to come with?”
“Is there room?” I asked.
“We’ll make it work.”
* * * *
Alastair’s main bathroom was at the top of the stairs, and the shower was more spacious than I’d expected. For a heritage home in Old Ottawa South, it was modern and swank. There was a walk-in shower surrounded in black and white retro-style tiles, an antique wood vanity with glass-bowl sink and waterfall faucet, and a modern, rectangular, stand-alone tub.
“For fuck’s sake, Alastair!” I said.
“What?”
I glared at him, raising finger quotes. “Not much but we’ll make it work?”
He shrugged, but blushed. “I mean, it’s not massive.”
I narrowed my eyes. “It’s the size of my bedroom.”
“Shut up. It is not.”
I laughed sardonically. “Oh, you have no idea how the rest of us live, do you?”
He smiled. “Stop making fun of me and get naked, please. I need to take these pants off.”
“Yes, Sir!” I said.
It had been a joke, but the look that came over him—halfway between his O-face and the expression of a startled pigeon—made my dick twitch.
“Oh, you like that.”
He tried to brush it off. “Well, I like it when my partners do what I tell them. Yeah.”
“Hmm. I liked the way you looked when I said it.”
“Just get in the shower.”
We gave each other surreptitious glances as we undressed, curious to see the other completely naked. Kind of funny that we’d had sex twice now without taking our clothes off. Alastair bent to turn on the tap then the showerhead. I ogled his fine-as-fuck ass and the muscles of his thighs.
God, he was a good-looking man, just the right amount of body hair and muscles with the definition of a swimmer or a runner…strong, but not bulked up. Not that I cared—okay, fine, I did. I liked my men on the sleek side.
Being in the shower together felt incredibly intimate but also seemed completely normal.
“Here… Turn around,” Alastair said.
I gave him a suspicious look, and he laughed.
“I want to wash your hair.”
“That’s what they all say,” I quipped.
I turned, and he took a bottle of shampoo from the shelf and started lathering my hair. It felt…nice. Really nice. I stared at the tiles and let myself feel cherished and cared for. It was a strange sensation, and one I don’t remember having experienced often. Although there had been one time, years ago, after a particularly heated argument with my mom when Esther had looked after me, taking me to the clinic where I’d lied and said I’d got hit during a baseball game.
“I never asked what your pronouns are,” Alastair said, out of the blue.
