“No, of course not. I’m not going to draw you a bath so you can relax, and then assume you want to get naked with me and do stuff.”
I shuck my shorts and underwear together, and I’m naked. He hasn’t even started taking his clothes off, so I decide to help him. First, his shirt, so I can get my hands on his yummy, muscular torso. He holds his arms up and lets me rip it off and drop it, and I run my hands over his shoulders and back and chest, on the way to the fly of his jeans. He yanks his foot out, turning the leg inside out, and then the other, kicking the inside-out garment aside. His underwear is bulged.
I touch the bulge. “Someone is eager to come out and play.”
He rumbles a laugh as I tug the undergarment away from his belly, allowing his burgeoning erection to unfurl. “Always. Especially when you get naked.”
Me, naked, makes him get hard.
I love knowing that.
We play with each other in the bath. Touching, teasing. Never quite taking it to the point of rising to climax. We talk. We touch. We soak. I lie against him, my back to his front, and I close my eyes, and relax in his embrace, hot water splashing around us.
After a while, I’m ready to be out of the tub and in bed with him.
I want to finish what we started in the tub.
Maybe even finish it in a new way.
“I think I’m ready to get out,” I whisper.
He’s set towels aside for us, and he gets out first, towels off quickly and wraps it around his waist, and then holds the other out for me, wrapping around me as I step out.
I dry off, and then drape the towel on the tub, which he’s set to drain while I was drying off. I reach for his towel and tug it free. “You don’t need this.”
He’s fully erect, a thick pink-tan rod flat against his belly, straining. I want him.
I want to make love to him.
Right now.
I take him by the hand, lead him to the bed. To our bed.
Climb in, toss the covers aside. He follows, and lays on his back, curls me into his arms. As if he’s trying to slow this down.
I rest against his chest, gaze up at him. He’s watching me, and I see the heat in his eyes, the desire. But I also see a hesitation. Something else.
I wonder if he’s still holding back because he’s worried about me physically.
“Tell me what you’re thinking, Wes,” I whisper.
He rolls a shoulder. “I…” a sigh. “I…”
I don’t like the hesitation. It’s not distance—he’s here with me, and the desire for me is plain as day in his face, but there’s something holding him back. I grasp him, touch him slowly, caressing him.
“Tell me, Wes. Please?”
He closes his eyes as I touch. “The way you touch me, Jo…god, it feels good.”
I squirm closer to him, wriggle higher, lean against him and drape one leg over his, thighs parted. Touch his hand and guide it to me. “I love how you touch me too, Wes.” I rub against his fingers. “I want you.”
He closes his eyes. “I want you too.”
“Then what’s stopping you?”
“What’s stopping me is I want youtoomuch.”
I laugh. “No such thing.”
