The man’s toned body was a work of art. From his traps to his honed calves, from the dark hair on his chest to the square beauty of his jaw. He was like a Spartan. A gladiator. A warrior. If I was a director, I would cast him in every movie requiring a daunting hero of colossal proportions. Sexy and stunning all in one delicious package. Who could resist?
He let me trace the contours of his muscles with a light touch like I’d done the night I’d taken him to bed. He stood motionless as I thoroughly examined him from top to bottom.
“You’re fucking beautiful,” I said.
He didn’t respond and ducked his chin. He didn’t believe me.
I didn’t study the silver outline of the scars on his arms, chest, or face. I didn’t ask about the tattoos or their meaning. I didn’t try to read into the history of the war he’d fought growing up. I ignored the self-inflicted wounds he’d tried to hide under dense ink on his thighs, knowing the inner demon he’d battled as a child still lived inside him now.
Stepping back, I removed my clothing, leaving them on the floor before running the shower and adjusting the temperature. Diem struggled to maintain eye contact. A soul-deep pain resonated from his steely gray eyes. Fathoms deep. Unthinkable. Unreadable. Unknowable. The man might be a wall of strength on the outside, but he was fragile beneath his thick skin and corded muscles. Wounded.
Diem would never reach for me or initiate contact. I knew this, so I took his hand and guided him under the warm spray. He didn’t have much hair to wash, but I took my time, spreading shampoo over his scalp and digging my fingers in.
His chin fell to his chest as I worked, and quiet groans of pleasure whispered past his lips.
“You got a thing for scalp massages, huh?” I added pressure.
He grunted and semi-nodded.
Chuckling, I moved my sudsy hands to his face, tilting his head so he would look at me while I scrubbed the thick scruff covering his jaw and neck. Diem was rarely clean-shaven.
I pecked a light kiss on his parted lips, and his breathing hitched.
“There’s a lot of you to wash. If you don’t mind, I’m going to take my time.”
He opened and closed his mouth but couldn’t seem to find the words to speak.
I pecked another quick kiss on his failing mouth and moved on.
Next, I doused a washcloth in my favorite chamomile and lavender body wash—a scent that seemed at odds with a rough man like Diem. I washed his massive body, taking my time over every hill, flat plain, and valley, ensuring I didn’t miss a spot.
The heat of his gaze warmed me, but every time I peeked, he looked away. I stood closer than he was probably comfortable, but he didn’t retreat. When I brushed my nose along his collarbones, inhaling and grazing my lips over his warm skin, he held his breath but remained still.
I washed lower. Over his rigid abdomen. Around to his back and over the concrete mounds of his glutes. His thighs were as wide and dense as tree trunks, and I paid them plenty of attention. Then, I took his impressive cock in hand and stroked, brushing my fingers over his balls on the descent, rolling them in my palm.
He grunted and squeezed his eyes shut, knees wobbling. He wasn’t fully hard but getting him there didn’t take long. With the soapy glide and a few artfully executed twists of the wrist, I had him trembling and sputtering in seconds.
He groped the tiled wall, seeking purchase. I wished he would grab for me instead, but it was too much to ask. I didn’t stop and took him through to completion. A strangled grunt left his throat, and his warm release coated my hand.
Shaking, chest heaving, Diem peered up from under wet lashes, a mixture of uncertainty and relief in his eyes. Somehow, he managed to seem mournful instead of satisfied, and I hated it.
I swiped the suds from his face and caught his jaw. “You aren’t supposed to look sad after an orgasm.”
“I’m sorry.” His voice came out thick and raspy. “I… Tallus…” My name was drenched in sorrow, and I got the feeling no onehad ever taken good care of this man. The affection I showed him was a world he’d never experienced.
“Don’t be sorry. Can I kiss you?”
His attention shifted to my mouth, and he nodded.
I tasted regret with the first glide of his tongue. His or mine, I couldn’t be sure. He was right. I wanted something he couldn’t give me. All we were doing was prolonging the suffering.
I was about to pull away, tell him I would let him finish showering on his own when an uncertain hand rested against the small of my back. I broke free from his mouth to look him in the eyes.
He stared back. So much helplessness. The pressure was minuscule, so light I could have been imagining it, but it was real. Diem drew me against his chest, and I went willingly into his arms, rejoining our mouths in a feeble, desperate kiss I knew wouldn’t last.
It tasted an awful lot like goodbye.
***