He started at my shoulders and focused on the parts of the center of my back that were hardest to reach. The steam had started to fade, replaced by the hum of water and occasional shouts from across the locker room. And apparently, it wasn’t subtle. But I didn’t. I was hyper-aware of every inch of his hands as they pressed against my body, the heat of his skin, the rough texture of his palms, the skilled pressuring of his fingers. My towel barely clung to my hips, and I felt every inch of my awkwardness as I stood there, trying to blend into the background. “Uh oh,” he said, drawing out the words like he was savoring my embarrassment but then he offered guidance. But my eyes kept drifting, pulled by some magnetic force. His thumb pressed deeper, coaxing shivers from me as I tried to stifle the moans threatening to escape. The showers were the real kicker.
