That sound he makes is all the encouragement I need. I lean over him, working my hands over his shoulders, his arms, down the length of his back, over his chest, bent low with my face just next to his.

Pausing to soap up my hands again and flashing him a crooked grin, I let my hands drift lower, over his stomach, the ridges of muscle he's been slowly rebuilding, then I let my hand slip down between his legs, sliding over his cock. And maybe I'm not exactly working toward sex, but there's nothing clinical or detached about it.