Chapter 16: Chapter 16
Steam still curled like lazy ghosts from the shower stall as Debbie padded into the bathroom, the humid air thick with the lingering scent of Matt’s body wash – something clean, aquatic, vaguely masculine. It was his scent, already imprinted on this shared space since that morning’s encounter. She exhaled, the familiar aroma wrapping around her, amplifying the low thrum of anticipation that had started the moment she heard his bedroom door click shut down the hall. Their routine now.
She locked the door behind her, a pointless formality, and let the thin silk robe slide off her shoulders. The air, still warm from Matt’s shower, kissed her bare skin. Stepping under the spray felt like entering a sanctuary scented by him. She washed slowly, methodically, the water sluicing away the night’s restlessness, but not the memory of the kitchen. You make reaching look pretty damn good. The words echoed, mingling with the drumming water, tightening something low in her belly. She lingered, letting the heat soak into muscles still tense from the awkward flight to her bedroom the night before.
Finally, she turned the water off. The sudden quiet was broken only by the dripping faucet and the distant chirp of a bird outside the small, high window. She slid the fogged shower door open and reached for her towel. Wrapping it securely around her body, she tucked the end firmly above her breasts, her skin flushed and dewy. She squeezed the water from her chestnut hair, the damp ends clinging to her neck and shoulders.
Then, the rattle of the door handle. A soft jiggle. Her breath caught. Right on time.
"It's me," Matt called through the wood, his voice muffled but clear. "You decent?"
Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic counterpoint to the dripping tap. Decent? Hardly. Just a towel. And him, right there. The secret thrill was immediate, undeniable. "Just a sec!" she called back, her voice slightly higher than usual. She took a deliberate breath, smoothing the towel down her hips. Stay casual. It’s just Matt. Routine. She unlocked the door and pulled it open a crack.
He stood there, bathed in the brighter light of the hallway, already stripped down to just his dark blue boxer shorts. His hair was sleep-tousled, eyes still heavy-lidded. And there it was, that undeniable evidence of morning beneath the thin cotton – a semi-erection tenting the fabric, already subsiding but impossible to miss. She forced her gaze upwards, meeting his hazel eyes, hoping the flush on her cheeks could be attributed to the steam.
"Morning," he yawned, scratching his bare chest, utterly unconcerned. "All yours?" He gestured vaguely towards the shower with his chin.
"All done," Debbie managed, stepping aside to let him pass. Her bare shoulder brushed against his warm arm as he squeezed by. The brief contact sent a jolt through her. She caught another wave of his sleep-warm scent mixed with the soap lingering on his skin.
He dropped his boxers without preamble, kicking them towards the laundry basket beside the toilet. Debbie turned quickly towards the vanity counter, busying herself with her hairbrush, but not before catching the full, unguarded view in the fogged mirror: his lean back, the defined curve of his buttocks, the long line of his legs. He moved with the unselfconscious grace of youth, stepping into the shower stall and sliding the door closed behind him with a soft whoosh.
The spray hissed back to life, louder now within the enclosed space. Debbie leaned closer to the mirror, pretending intense focus on detangling her damp hair. The steam began to clear the glass, panel by panel, revealing glimpses of him behind the translucent shower door. The blurry outline of his figure under the water. The sweep of his arm as he shampooed his hair. The powerful shift of his shoulders.
She angled herself slightly, using the mirror to watch the reflection of the shower instead of turning her head outright. Safer. Less obvious. The steam swirled, sometimes obscuring, sometimes revealing tantalizing fragments – the hard plane of his stomach, the flex of a calf. Each glimpse sent a fresh wave of heat through her, pooling deep within. She remembered his tan lines from that first morning observation, stark against his skin now wet and gleaming. Remembered the kitchen, her own exposure, his simple, devastating compliment. Her fingers trembled slightly on the hairbrush handle.
The water stopped. Debbie snapped her gaze firmly back to her own reflection in the mirror, focusing on the damp strands clinging to her temple. The shower door slid open. A cloud of warm, wet air billowed out, carrying the intensified scent of his body wash. She heard the rustle of his towel, the soft, wet sounds as he dried himself.
"Morning Wood putting in another appearance, huh?" Matt said cheerfully, his voice echoing slightly in the tiled room. He chuckled, a low, easy sound. "Always happens. Like clockwork. Kinda annoying."
Debbie kept brushing, her eyes fixed on her own flushed face in the mirror. "Just biology," she murmured, hoping her voice sounded normal. Casual. Landlady-like. She saw his reflection approach in the mirror behind her. He was rubbing the towel vigorously through his damp brown hair, completely naked. Water droplets clung to the defined muscles of his shoulders and back.
He dropped the towel around his neck like a scarf and reached for his razor on the counter, right beside where she stood. The proximity was immediate, electric. Bare inches separated the damp terrycloth encircling his neck and the thin cotton towel barely containing her own body. She could feel the radiant heat coming off his skin, smell the clean, damp maleness of him over the floral remnants of her shampoo.
He squeezed shaving cream into his palm, the sound loud in the suddenly charged silence. He started to lather his jawline, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror. A casual glance, holding for a beat too long. A hint of that friendly, uncomplicated smile touched his lips. "Sleep okay?" he asked, his gaze briefly flicking down – not lecherously, but perhaps noting the flush on her chest visible above her towel, the rapid pulse beating in her throat?
She swallowed. He sees it. He must see it. The awareness was a physical thing between them in the steam-hazed reflection. Her grip tightened on the hairbrush. Her own towel felt impossibly thin, a flimsy barrier against the naked reality of him standing so close, his hip almost brushing hers as he leaned towards the mirror to examine his jaw. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken things – her stolen glances, his easy nudity, the echo of his compliment, the sheer, undeniable magnetism of his nearness.