The next day, when the doorbell rang, I immediately felt a slight tingle of excitement. I opened the door and saw Oliver again, shirtless, a tool bag on his shoulder, a coffee to go in his other hand. The sun highlighted the lines of his muscles, and the tattoo on his rib was visible with every breath he took.
“Ready for another day of work?” he asked with a smile as he walked past me into the house.
I sat down in the armchair, watching as he spread out the drop cloth and got the rollers ready. He moved with an easy, unhurried pace, bending over every so often, and each time his boxers stretched tight over his ass in a way that pulled my gaze away from the walls.
He had been painting for a few minutes when I suddenly felt something cool on my forearm. I looked down and saw a fresh streak of white paint on my skin.
“What's that?” I asked, and Oliver turned with an innocent expression on his face, holding the brush.
“Oops. It splattered a little,” he said in a tone that didn't match how precisely he had been working just a moment ago.
He came closer, as if to fix the stain, but instead he dragged the brush across my neck. The paint was cold, and his gaze had the same sparkle it had yesterday when he caught me looking.
“You...” I muttered, trying to back away, but he moved the brush across my collarbone and shoulder, chuckling under his breath.
I leaned back and grabbed the roller lying next to me to return the “attack.” I ran it along his side, leaving a pale streak on his tanned skin. Oliver laughed even louder.
“Are we even now?” he asked, standing over me in just his boxers, with several white streaks on his thighs and chest.
“Maybe...” I replied, and then continued painting him, and he me.
After several minutes of our “war,” I looked like a walking canvas. There was paint everywhere, on my arms, neck, even a little on my cheek. Oliver didn't look any better; his muscular torso and thighs were streaked with white smears that contrasted with his tanned skin.
“Okay, I have to wash this off or it'll dry,” I said.
Oliver raised an eyebrow. “Go ahead, I'll finish here.”
I headed for the bathroom, leaving the door slightly ajar. I turned on the water, and a hot stream filled the stall with steam. I took off my clothes and stepped into the shower, feeling the warmth slowly relax my muscles and wash away the paint.
Suddenly, I heard footsteps behind me. I turned my head and saw Oliver standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, still in his boxers, but without the paintbrush in his hand.
“Hey, Matt...” he said, a slight smile appearing on his face.
“To save water... how about I join you?”
I stood rooted to the spot, water running down my neck. It was the moment when, in a normal world, a person would laugh and say no. But I... I just felt my heart racing.
“...Sure,” I replied, quieter than I intended.
Oliver stepped in without hesitation. He grabbed the waistband of his boxers, slowly pulled them down, and threw them into the corner of the bathroom. He was now standing naked, with drops of paint on his hips, running down with the trickles of water.
He came closer, right under the stream. I felt the tip of his cock brush against my ass, gently, as if by accident... though we both knew it wasn't an accident at all.
“Here too…” Oliver murmured, and before I could ask what he meant, I felt his hand on my shoulder. In his other hand, he was holding a bottle of shower gel.
He squeezed some onto his palm and began to spread it over my back. His movements were slow and precise. His hands moved along my spine, over my shoulder blades, then down to my hips. I could feel his thumbs digging lightly into my muscles, and the gel mixed with water turned into a slippery, warm layer.
I was breathing harder, trying to pretend it was just washing, but his touch said something completely different. Oliver moved his hands to my stomach, slowly, as if exploring every line of my body. Then he gently pressed me against him, and I felt his hard cock between my buttocks.
“Gotta be thorough…” he added quietly, running one hand over my chest and the other down along my thighs.
After a moment, he pulled away and handed me the bottle. “Now you.”
I turned to him. Water dripped down his chest, highlighting every muscle. I took out the gel, poured it on my hands, and began to repeat his movements, from his neck down, along his arms, down the sides of his body. Oliver's skin was hot under my fingers, and I could feel the tension in his muscles, as if he were holding back something more.
I leaned down to wash his thighs, and then the bottle of gel slipped out of my hands. It fell to the floor of the stall with a loud slap.
I bent down to pick it up, feeling his gaze on me. Before I could grab it, Oliver leaned forward, grabbed it first, and stood up straight, standing before me in all his glory.
He held the bottle in one hand and leaned against the stall wall with the other. He looked me in the eyes and smiled slightly.
“Stay like that for a moment,” he said suddenly, his voice now completely different. “You're going to wash my dick.”
I froze for a moment in that bent position, the water drumming on my back, his words spinning in my head.
He opened the bottle and squeezed a generous amount of gel directly onto his hard cock. The thick, transparent liquid ran down his vein from the base to the tip, mixing with the water.
“Now you... spread it,” he instructed calmly, as if it were something completely normal.
I reached out and wrapped my hand around half of it. The skin was hot and taut, and the gel made every movement of my hand slippery and smooth. I started slowly, moving my hand from the base to the tip, circling the wet end with my finger.
“Mmm... slower...” he murmured, looking at me from under slightly half-closed eyelids. After a moment, however, his voice became more insistent. “Faster.”
I sped up, feeling his hips begin to move in rhythm with my hand. The water drummed against our bodies, and the slipperiness of the gel intensified every movement.
“More... faster...” His breathing became ragged, his fingers dug into my neck.
A few strong thrusts later, his body tensed, his hips jerked forward, and hot streams of cum shot straight onto my face and chest, mixing with the water running down from the shower.
He moved away, rinsed his chest, and looked at me with a smile.
“The shower was great,” he said, stepping out of the stall as if he had just finished a casual conversation, not something that was still making my heart race.
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