He sits between my thighs in the milk-colored water, hot vapor condensing in translucent pearls on his golden skin. I kiss the shining drops, dab them with my tongue, or trace them with a finger as they ripple and race each other down his muscled, tapering back into the steaming depths.
I wash his hair with the cut glass goblet that held my dinner wine, pouring from on high to hear the rilling splash, letting the crystal facets catch the light and cast their rainbows on us. He tips his head back into the cradle of my hand and I let the silken strands of his luminous hair glide, soap-slippery, between my fingers.
Steam rises from the opalescent water, scented with our bodies, and condenses on the walls, on the cool, green marble, turning to dewy droplets that trickle down and gather in shaded pools on terracotta tiles. Evening sun slants, heavy and golden, through the green shutters, filtered through stained window glass and our bodies' mist to dapple in colored, winking lights upon the floor.
We left our clothes, the dust and the gunpowder, on the bedroom floor of this, the old Grand Hotel of a faded colonial town, south of Buenos Aires. The antique tub in the centre of this palatial bathroom took forever to fill, by iron bucket, room service, but here we are, luxuriating finally in the sweet, humid embrace. Our moves send wavelets rippling over the edge, quickening the percursive drip upon the tiles, the only other sounds the whirr of crickets from the gardens below and a distant, lonely trumpet somewhere.
The sultry heat makes sweat blossom on our skins and it evaporates along with the steam. From behind, I trace the soft shape of his wet lips with my fingers, gasping as he nips one with his teeth, then closes his warm mouth round it.
Here, I reclaim him intact, exulting, steering us back from the edge of oblivion. Here, the shocks evaporate, exhilaration condensing to sharp relief and aching renewal.
I kiss his nape once, twice and linger, suckling the sweetness of his wet, tender flesh and our mingled essences.
I pull and he leans back, head on my shoulder, a glorious weight against my chest, trapping my swollen erection at the base of his spine. He moves, to ease the pressure, but my circling arm arrests him. Stay. I cup my hand into the water between his thighs and pour it on his chest, again, and again, bathing him slowly, my open palm stroking his smooth, soft breast and the hard nubs of his nipples.
I tip his head to mine, meeting heat-limpid eyes, and seal his eager-opening mouth. Then I put my hand into the water, tenderly gather the full, hard length of his penis, and milk him.
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