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He already started the water, the steam swirling around us.
Friends. Friends. Friends. I chant to myself.
I clear my throat. “Well, are you gonna shower with your clothes on?” I ask, indicating his shorts and T-shirt, like a total hypocrite.
He looks over my equally clothed body.
“Only if you do,” he says, his voice a little weaker than in the bedroom.
I lift the hem of my shirt over my body, tossing it on the floor. I’m wearing a thin black bralette. He sucks in, slowly expelling his breath. His eyes drink in my covered breasts that are slowly moving with my lungs. Then, he quickly removes his own shirt to reveal his muscled torso. I want to get on my knees and thank that old farm for having so many heavy things to push around.
I bravely step out of the denim shorts I fell asleep in, noting he must have gotten up to change before choosing to crawl back in bed with me. He removes his, and we’re both down to our underwear. Our eyes are slightly wide, breathing a bit labored.
Someone from the boys’ side bangs on the door, and we jolt. I wrap my arms around my torso, gripping my elbows.
“I’m taking a shower. Use the one down the hall,” Adam barks out, checking the lock.
“Hurry up!” Dan’s muffled annoyance leaks under the door.
Adam doesn’t reply, and I look down at my chipped toenail polish, suddenly feeling less brave. I won’t be the one to back down.
Without thinking, I jump under the stream, still wearing my lacy bralette and black thong. The water is scorching, and I’m sticking to the wall, fiddling with the knob.
He steps in, still wearing faded blue boxers, an obvious tent situation in the front that heats my cheeks.
His hand covers mine, pushing the single knob in the correct direction to bring the water down to bearable human temperatures. I study his face, dark brown lashes dripping water down his cheekbones. His mouth is perfection, shaped equally on top and bottom, that perfect shade of pink. His jawline rivals every male model I’ve ever seen in a cologne ad.
His hand reaches up, and I hold my breath. He doesn’t touch me, just presses his large palm into the cold tiles above my head to brace himself. I must be losing my mind. I keep assuming what’s about to happen and being completely disappointed.
There’s a tiny green sliver of soap on a ledge behind him. I reach for it, my mouth nearly meeting his shoulder but not quite. I begin to lather it slowly, debating whether or not I dare touch him.
The status quo is suspended in the unknown. Can we reasonably suggest that friends actually shower together, albeit clothed?
His eyelids are hooded, my lips the only thing he can look at, other than my entire dripping, etched body. I begin to wash myself with slow, deliberate movements, white suds forming over my exterior. His eyes are lasered into every fraction of skin he can see. I want so badly to remove the thin cloth barriers between us, but is he ready?
Wouldn’t he make the move if he was?
28
Adam
The agonizing predilection I feel for Harley is disturbing. Granted, I’ve never showered with a girl, but her roommate is pretty, and I wouldn’t want her in here.
There’s something about Harley that makes my entire body ache with pure, burning need—one part far more than the rest. I feel like I’m the drug addict my parents warned me about as a child, desperate for one thing and willing to destroy anyone to get it.
She’s cleansing herself, and I’m desperately addicted to her hands gliding over the ebony pictures on her skin. She reaches under her black bra to wash her breasts, and I have no choice but to turn away, groaning in agony. She’s in grave danger of me aggressively pouncing on her, and I don’t know what her emotional state is after last night.
I’m facing the opposite wall of the tiny shower, my forehead pressed to the cold gray tile. My focus is on anything outside this world of steam and regaining control of my breathing. She reaches around me to lay the soap back on the ledge near my knee. I’m still breathing out in ragged, uneven puffs.
I finally gain the courage to grab the green bar, turning it over in my hand before obscenely rubbing it on myself. I clean my face first because I’m a sick, perverted man, in love with a woman that I’m inadequate for. I imagine her while I do it because in my head, the desire I feel has no limits or bounds.
“You can turn around now,” a soft voice speaks from behind me.
I obey instantly, continuing to wash my body. It’s her time to watch me, crystal-blue eyes zeroed in on my hands. We’re both in need of oxygen after several minutes of the typically mundane ritual.
Someone with a death wish bangs on the door.
“Geez, Adam, I get you’re all frustrated, but that means it shouldn’t take so long.” Dan’s voice breaks through, saving us from the inevitable.
