He had watched as she showered. Every moment of it. He still wasn't sure what called him here or from where he was called into being, but there was a lag of what he perceived as time between these moments they "shared" was his feeling. She was as beautiful wet as she was in each of the scenes they had shared. He saw the water fall across her skin, running down with the pace of gravity. Some water would pool in her hands, as she moved them over her skin, then drench her in its release. Her hands caressed and cleaned, her fingers moving from sight around the natural curves and between limbs and torso. Arm pits, thighs, cheeks. He wanted so badly to soap his hands and wash them across her neck and shoulders. So badly.
The view he had would come and go in the fog of steamed glass, but as if she knew or wanted to believe so, she angled the shower head to the glass to revive his view. She had bent as she washed soap off her legs and her bum pressed against the glass. This is when he had touched himself for the first time since they had been as together as they were.
She got out of the shower and shivered loudly, he'd not noticed the chill in the air of the evening until then, though naked he had not felt anything other than the warmth she brought. He watched as she wrapped herself in a too small towel, her nipples pressed beneath the fabric. He looked at then in the steamed up mirror, seeing them together as outlines in the mist. She whispered "is it you?" into the mirror and he froze. Could she see him today, or was this something else? She reached her hand to the glass, but he never saw her flesh press against the mirror. His vision grew bright, into white as it had before.
***
His focus returned to the room. She stood before him nude. The sight was beautiful. Her breasts dared him, in their poise, erectness and similarity, to touch. He reached out, hoping, and pressed a thumb to her left nipple. He felt it, hard beneath his touch. She let out a sweet breath, words lost in it forever. He placed his entire hand over the same tit. Feeling it weight as he squeezed and manipulated the fresh, her nipple grinding into his palm. She lent back against the sink, her buttocks pressed into the top of it as she curved her spine back, head thrown. Her groin presented towards him, pressed into him, aching for touch.
He stepped back to take in the full image of her desire for him. Each a stranger until so recently. Neither with any idea as to why the other had arrived. But in this moment that was merely a passing notion. He knelt slowly, his eyes panning down her torso from her tits to her toes, then his focus pulled and returned on her pubic mound. She was presenting towards him still. He could see the slit of her vulva, her labia unfolded in arousal. He eased his face forwards slowly, hoping his breath was felt on her soft wet skin. The goose flesh grew across her thighs and tummy in response to this thought. He inhaled deeply. She smelt clean, but there was a hint of lust, the musk of the natural wetness of arousal.
