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I turned over slowly, and I didn’t reach for the towel.
My cock stood straight up off my belly, thick and dark and wet at the tip, twitching in the warm air. I didn’t apologise for it. I just lay back, put my hands behind my head and looked at her.
Claire stood there holding the towel like a matador’s cape. Her eyes went straight down. Stayed there.
“Well,” she said, her voice cracking. “That’s… a lot of tension.”
“Occupational hazard. You did that.”
“I did.” She didn’t sound sorry. She draped the towel over my thighs, below my cock, leaving it standing there between us like a question. Then she poured fresh oil into her palm and started on my chest.
She took her time. Her hands slid over my pecs, down my stomach, circling lower each pass. Her eyes flicked between my face and my cock. Her lips were parted. Her nipples were standing out like bullets through her scrubs.
On the next pass, her little finger brushed the base of my shaft. My whole body jerked.
She stopped. She looked at me, cheeks burning, and I could see the war going on behind her eyes. Helen. Christmas. Eleven years of wanting.
“Mark,” she whispered. “Do you want me to stop?”
My hands ached to reach for her. To pull those scrubs over her head and bury my face in her tits. It took everything I had to keep them behind my head.
→ I reach up and pull her down to me
→ I tell her it’s her call and I won’t touch her unless she says so