Chapter 2: A Shower Encounter
The steam hit her first, a warm, damp cloud that smelled of clean skin and that sharp, unscented soap of his. Debbie pushed the bathroom door open, her eyes still sleep-gummy, the terrycloth of her robe rasping against her knees.
He was there.
Facing her, turning at the sound. Water glistened on his shoulders, beaded in the dark hair on his chest. The towel was white and small, slung around his neck, not covering anything. One hand was raking through his wet hair, a lazy, efficient motion.
Everything slowed.
Her gaze, against all her shouted internal commands, dipped. The dark trail from his navel led down, a path through droplets of water, to the thick, soft weight of his cock hanging heavily between his legs. It swung slightly with his turn, a careless, naked pendulation, slapping softly against his inner thigh.
Debbie froze. The air vanished from her lungs. Her hand stayed on the doorknob, cold brass biting into her palm.
“Oh, hey! Sorry.” Matt’s voice was easy, cheerful even. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t reach for a cover. He just grinned that disarming, sleepy grin, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. He used the end of the neck-towel to swipe at his ear. “Didn’t think anyone was up. Hogging the hot water, my bad.”
He was so utterly, infuriatingly unselfconscious. A statue of casual youth, dripping onto the bath mat. A living, breathing anatomy chart from her massage textbooks, but flushed with life and heat and a complete ignorance of the seismic effect of his own exposure.
“I… it’s…” Her voice was a dry rasp. She couldn’t look away. The detail was brutal, searing itself into her: a droplet of water clinging to the hair just below his navel, tracking a slow path downward. The muscled definition of his hips. The absolute, ordinary stillness of his genitals in their unaroused state. It was the casualness that undid her. The ownership.