When he found my most private entrance, he pushed in, and I saw stars. When he was done soaping up, and I was still trying to act like my body hadn’t just betrayed every assumption I had about myself, we rinsed off side by side. Not in fear—but in something way more confusing. His shoulders were broad, his chest defined, and his abs looked like they’d been chiseled by Michelangelo himself. “Uh oh,” he said, drawing out the words like he was savoring my embarrassment but then he offered guidance. My eyes shot open, maybe it was an accident, I thought. Just a row of shower heads and a cloud of steam thick enough to choke on. “Relax,” he said, his tone calm, almost soothing. I melted, dropping my head as he massaged little knots and sore spots I didn’t even know I had. While his body partially hid the unfolding scene from the other guys, he played with my ass on repeat, murmuring encouraging words while I leaned back into it, unable to deny that I was loving the moment.
