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of fainting? I opted for the temperature I like myself, hot but not too hot. I took my seat.
    “Thank you,” he said, and stepped inside.
    I don’t know what it is about a man in the shower… His eyes shut and his dark hair turned black as the water cascaded over his face and shoulders, down his chest and stomach and legs, slipping from his oiled cock. My pulse sped as he took a bar of soap from a tray, turning it around and around. He taunted me until the lather was thick and dripping from his hands. His eyes opened, holding me hostage.
    He slicked a palm across his throat, his shoulder, down his arm. As he stroked his chest, the suds slid down the crests of his abdomen and between his legs. He broke eye contact to turn, letting me watch as he soaped his hair and his elegant back. He slicked lather between his ass cheeks with a slow, explicit sensuality. The caress unleashed strange, taboo possibilities in my head, ones that had never held much interest for me before that precise moment.
    He turned to face me again, leaning back against the tile with his feet braced at shoulder-width. For what felt like ages he soaped his chest and neck and stomach, before he finally slid his hands lower. Those dangerous eyes closed as he cupped his balls, fondling and lingering, the filthiest act of ablution I’ve ever seen.
    After a few more slippery turns of the bar in his hands, he lathered his cock.
    “Good,” I murmured.
    He didn’t touch himself as he had on the bed. This was for me, first and foremost, not merely a voyeuristic glimpse at private acts. He gave himself long, lazy strokes, as if he knew exactly what I wanted—to savor every wet, glistening square inch of his bare body.
    “Tell me what you think I want,” I said. “Not just tonight. But eventually.”
    Eyes still closed, he paused before he spoke. “I think you want me to take you.”
    “How?”
    I could have sworn his fist gripped tighter, his strokes no longer a show meant only for me, but pleasure for himself. “Slow,” he said. “Slow at first.”
    “Where?”
    “In my bed. You want me on top.”
    My throat and pussy tightened.
    “You want to be taken, your first time,” he went on. “You need to be passive before you can feel ready to take for yourself. When you trust my body, then you’ll explore.”
    “Explore how?”
    “Find out what it feels like, to have a man in your mouth.”
    “That usually comes first, doesn’t it? Before the actual sex?”
    He smiled to himself. “That is actual sex. And yes, it does often come first, but I don’t think it should.”
    “No?”
    “No. I think that act is more explicit than mere fucking.”
    I shivered, wondering if maybe I shared this view.
    “To trust someone when you can barely see their eyes,” he murmured. “To give up your own comfort and control and take pleasure in their commands, their experience. And for the one who receives, the vulnerability of being seen so close up, smelled and tasted.”
    “I never thought about it like that. It always seemed like…like the thing you do between fooling around and going all the way.”
    “It can be, if you like. But it isn’t to me.” His brown eyes finally opened. “When sexual pleasure loses its mutuality, that’s when the fear and the trust emerge. That’s real intimacy. To me.”
    I was being offered lessons on real intimacy from a man who fucks for money, yet I was inclined to subscribe. Then again, with that deep and nasty-sexy accent, Didier could tell me how to strip wallpaper or press flowers and I’d still be riding on the brink of orgasm.
    “I like that,” I told him. “Your views about it all.”
    “This is just what I’ve learned from the women I’ve been with. When you leave here, I’ll have learned something from you as well, I’m sure.”
    I found that hard to believe…I’m the least sexually experienced woman I know. But the way he said it had me wanting to believe it, which was enough.
    “You’ll teach me