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It’s a beautiful morning. Gentle light falls through the window of my and Nick’s bedroom, highlighting the pale colour scheme of the decor, as well as the pages of the book I’m reading. Birds are tweeting joyously outside, still audible over the rhythmic sound of running water as Nick’s erotic shower display plays out just feet away from me.
I concentrate on the words, the lines, the stanzas of the beautiful poetry, eager to take it in, since I’ve got to write an essay on the book for my university course in the next few days. It’s not easy, not with Nick completely naked and soaking wet in my vicinity. In my mind’s eye, of course, I already know what he looks like, and have had the amazing good fortune to study and explore every inch of his delectable body many, many times over with my eyes, hands, lips and tongue. I suppress a groan, blink hard, and force myself to focus on the words once more. This is important.
But it’s no good. Yeah, maybe I’ve got no willpower, but so what? A little bit of lusting never killed anybody. I can always catch up with my reading later.
I glance over my shoulder at him—God, he’s so gorgeous—then look forward again. After a moment, I roll over slowly, casually, as though just innocently changing my reading position from where I’d been on my front. I’m treated to an absolutely glorious view. As usual, Nick hasn’t bothered to close the curtains separating the shower from the rest of the room, and he’s on full display. He’s facing away from me, rubbing his hands over his slick skin as water cascades onto him, runs down his body and pours off again. I bite my lip as I take in the sight and admire it. The plastering of...
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