Never Say Forever

Those poor floor tiles—

Wait. The man is naked.

NAKED!

And in profile. And sorry Lord for taking your name in vain for the eleventy hundredth time today, but sweet baby Jesus, the man is put together well. So well put together I think he might’ve been at the front of the queue when penises were being handed out. Or maybe he was at the back and was given his allotted amount plus whatever was leftover that day. And let me tell you, that day there was a lot leftover.

Myopia be damned; I don’t need to do the short-sighted squint to see that.

But no sudden movements, Fee, or the mega penis might move closer.

Just slide your hands back into the tub and wait until he’s in the shower before you make your move.

And so I do, and when he disappears once more, the sound of the shower door opening and banging shut, and I waste no time in clambering up. Which, as it turns out, is a mistake as he appears in front of me, the big ole shower-faker, only this time, he’s facing the mirror above the marble vanity, his eyes on his phone as he taps something out.

My heart bangs so hard against my chest I’m sure if I glanced down, it would look like it’s trying to escape, cartoon style. But that has to be the least ridiculous aspect of my predicament as my hands grip the sides of the tub, my body crouched half in and half out of the water. But not even my position stops me from some major ogling.

The rear view is . . . sublime.

He is a honey-hued marble carving of Zeus come to life. Deltoids, lats, and obliques; I’m able to name a half dozen more muscles thanks to many hours of study for my degree. But I’m not looking at him as a clinical specimen, not the way my eyes devour. And while my examination probably happens over the course of seconds, the moment seems to be endless, my gaze sweeping over those firm globes one more time before climbing the strong line of his spine and over one broad shoulder . . . to where his gaze meets mine in the mirror.

Fudge knuckles.

Fucksicles.

Oh, fuck!

This is not good.

6

Fee

Oh man, those eyes.

Why do they dance with amusement and not shock?

Panic overcomes my questions as I reach blindly for my towel, knocking it from the table and out of reach instead. Shock hits first, quickly followed by its good friend horror, embarrassment bringing up the rear end while also causing me to drop back into the water. With the kind a splash worthy of a breaching orca. I swipe up the muslin cloth on the side of the tub that I’d used to wipe off my makeup with no attention to spare for the empty whisky tumbler I knock to the floor. I hurriedly slap the small square of fabric to my boobs, but even with my forearm securing it to my chest, it’s hardly what I’d call full coverage.

“I find there’s nothing quite like a hot bath to help a person wind down.”

“I beg your pardon?” My answer isn’t quite immediate, but sounds so very mummy-ish as, in the mirror, his expression reveals nothing but a barely-there smirk.

“A hot bath and a few fingers.” He turns and leans back against the vanity and folds his arms across his broad chest, taut muscles elongate and flex in the process. Obliques that look like some form of body armour, honed and pointing to—

Focus, woman.

No—not on that!

Focus on the situation before your eyes fall out of your head from strain.

Wait. Did he just say . . .

“I’m sorry, but are you talking about masturbation or the scotch in this instance?” I’d like to glance at the glass, but I can’t seem to move my gaze from his. Okay, so I’m lying. I’d like to drop my gaze to entirely different place, but that wouldn’t be helpful and only encourage more staring.

“We could pretend I meant scotch. To be polite.”

And, oh, my Lord, the man has the kind of voice that could narrate whisky commercials and sell crates of the stuff. Smooth. Manly. Tempting. Maybe that’s why his voice seems sort of familiar. Maybe I’ve heard his work.

“Are you in the habit of discussing masturbation with women you’ve just met?”

“You’d be surprised how often it comes up.”

With the mention of up, my gaze, of course, goes down. Can a person get heatstroke from a steamy bathroom? Because I think that must be what’s wrong with me.

What’s wrong with me?!

“Please don’t say anything else.” I hurriedly cover my eyes with my hand. “This is a highly inappropriate conversation.” One that I can’t believe I’m taking part in. “And please cover yourself.”

“That hardly seems fair when you aren’t. Though some gifts aren’t meant to be wrapped.”