Page 44 of One Last Try

His frown disappears. “Oh.” He understands. It’s my invitation for him to look. Get his fill of my naked body without the encumbrance of me watching him and knowing where his eyes wander.

I don’t say anything else, I simply move my fingers to my hair, tilt my head up, and close my eyes.

Water of the exact perfect temperature hits my back, and my fingertips work lather into my crown. Owen is silent, but Ifeelhis gaze on me. It’s a caress . . . respectful, like everything else he does. I pivot my body, taking a step bothbackwards and turning towards him. Water now cascades over my shoulders and sluices down my chest.

I know from countless hours spent in front of the mirror working out that I look good right now. Better than good, with my arms above my head. My stomach muscles will be lengthened, my biceps and triceps flexed, pectorals bulging. I trimmed yesterday too. Everything is neat and inviting.

I want to open my eyes to see if he’s enjoying my display, but I don’t. I give him all the privacy he needs. I want him to take his time, take care to memorise me. Catalogue me. Think of me tonight when he climbs under those striped covers and fucks his own hand.

I shake the thought before I start to chub up, and let the water rinse the suds from my hair.

“Gonna open my eyes now,” I announce, so Owen knows his time is up.

“That’s cool,” he says, his voice breathier than a moment ago. His chest seems to be rising and falling a little quicker too. “Need to wash my hair. Won’t take me as long; there’s not as much.” He smirks at me and leans past me, grabbing my shampoo.

I watch him, let him fill his palm, even though he literally only has a two-inch-wide strip of hair and my shampoo cost thirty pounds a bottle. Then he blows out a steadying breath, closes his eyes, reaches up to his scalp, and angles himself towards me.

And I do what I’ve been desperate to do since the moment I figured out we’d be showering together. I take in everything that is Owen Bosley, naked and dripping.

He’s glorious. Sheer perfection,andin every possible way, supremely average. His skin is pale white, turned pink in places by the hot water. He’s hairy, just like he said he was, though not quite yeti-extreme. It’s more like a reddish-blonde dusting. He has constellations of freckles and moles scattered across his shoulders and arms, and an ancient two-inch silver scar above his right hip. An appendectomy, most likely. He has a big round belly and a meaty chest and a very regular-sized—if not slightlysmall—cock.

He’s wonderful, and I could waste the entire day staring at the way the water tumbles over his curves. His is a body hewn from love, and from generosity, and from soul-deep self-care. From years of rugby, of playing the sport we’re both obsessed with. From past-life strength training, and more recently from rest. From feeding it the foods he loves while feeding others and loving in return. From being a father, and no doubt messing about with his kids, eating ice cream with them, taking them to the pool, and the beach, and all the other seemingly small actions that have helped mould the guy before me.

I don’t really know how to describe it in any other words, but it’s the body of a very happy man.

The thought pulls at something deep within me, and I have the crashing realisation I want to be included in that . . . in the happiness that helps shape him.

But I have no idea in what capacity. I don’t do relationships; I barely do friendships. And I’ll be leaving before the end of the season anyway, so even—

“I’m . . . finished washing my hair now,” Owen says, snapping me out of my thoughts. I drag my eyes to his face again just as he opens his own.

We both giggle, but don’t say anything. Owen purses his lips closed and grabs his wash cloth and five-in-one. I soap up my loofah and start furiously scrubbing the skin on my thighs to distract myself.

“Did you look?” he asks eventually, his voice quiet.

I nod. “Did you?”

Owen nods too. “Did you . . .” He gives his head a little shake, as though mustering the courage to finish his question. “Did you . . . enjoy what you saw?”

I let my eyes search his face. He’s holding his breath. His chest doesn’t rise or fall, but otherwise his expression reveals nothing.

“Yes,” I say.

His mouth parts, relief rushing out.

“Did you?” I ask.

“You already know the answer to that.”

His shower stops. A few seconds later, mine does too. Silence envelops the concrete hut, except for the steady, echoingdripdripdripof the faucets behind us.

Owen rings out his washcloth, grabs his five-in-one. “I . . . haven’t seen the view from the back, though . . .”

“Sure,” I say. I collect my bits from the little shelf and walk out of the shower area to the locker room, grabbing my towel on the way but not wrapping it around myself, making sure Owen gets a decent look at my ass.

My wet feet in my wet sliders on the wet tiles make the least sexiest crunching slapping sound I think I’ve ever heard.

18

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