I find myself on my feet, hand on the bathroom doorknob before I know what's happening. I pause and examine myself—terrified and full of panic, yet determined.
I can do this. I can go in there. I can sit on the toilet lid and watch him shower. I can look at his naked body and not flee. I can watch him pleasure himself.
I don't think I can take off my towel, but I can take this one tiny step toward regaining my sexuality…
My sense of self.
I twist the knob and push the door open. Steam envelops me, and I close the door behind me. The bathroom is a wonderlandof marble and glass. The shower is on the left, hazed with steam, revealing Lorenzo's brown skin and hard muscles rippling with brawny power as he stands beneath the rainfall showerhead, face tipped up to the water, scrubbing lather out of his longish black hair.
A splat of water hits the marble under his feet, and then he scrapes his palm down his face and blinks. His gaze happens to flick my way, and his hand slowly lowers from his face.
"Sophia," he murmurs.
I swallow hard. "I can't—I can't go in there with you, Lorenzo. Not yet."
"That's okay," he answers.
"But I…"I step toward the glass separating us, trying to find the courage to say what I want. "I wanted to…to see you."
He turns to face me, and my eyes rake over his body—heavy pecs, thick arms, bulging thighs. His abs aren't shredded, but rather are a hard, flat anvil of powerful muscle sheathed in skin, a thin layer of body fat, and a spattering of curly black body hair. I see the various injuries he has sustained on my behalf, in varying stages of healing–scabbed and pink, raw and red and angry.
His cock hangs thick and heavy between his thighs, swaying slightly from the momentum of his pivot.
I swallow hard—I haven't looked upon a naked male form in a very, very long time, and not voluntarily since my last lovemaking with Lorenzo all those years ago.
He is beautiful. No longer a boy barely on the cusp of manhood, Lorenzo is a huge, hard, powerful specimen of virile masculine beauty, intensely fit, covered in scars—burns, cuts, bullet holes, and who knows what else.
My mouth is dry as I look at him, and I cannot swallow, can't draw a breath.
I touch the pads of my fingers to the glass at chest height, searching his eyes, his face, and then letting my gaze slide over his body once more—catching, inevitably, on his manhood once more.
He just stands there letting me look. No quips, no jokes, no invitations, no innuendos.
I square my shoulders. Meet his eyes. "You are more handsome now than you were twenty years ago."
"I'm glad you think so," he says.
"Have you already…" I trail off, glancing at his penis again.
"No."
"Oh."
I inhale deeply, my chest swelling—I feel the towel, wrapped around my torso and tucked in at my breastbone, loosen with the breath.
Determination to conquer my trauma wars against the unreasoning panic boiling in my gut.
I'm breathing hard, suddenly, and the towel loosens with each panted breath. My heart pounds in my chest and my palms go clammy. The towel slips, the tucked-in portion sagging free. Lorenzo's eyes remain fixed on mine.
"You don’t have to doanything, Sophia," he murmurs. "You have nothing to prove to me."
"I have something to prove to myself," I answer.
I lift my chin and hold his gaze as I feel the towel sag, droop, and then flutter free to pool at my feet, leaving me naked in front of Lorenzo, the only man I've ever loved.
It's that night in the hayloft all over again, but now I’m a woman and he's a man, and I'm terrified and fighting the urge to flee.
I don't.
