Cyrus didn't miss the hand on his arm—how Ray's fingers traced a slow line from his bicep down to his wrist, like a path that needed exploration. The touch was subtle, careful, but it lingered in a way that sparked an intrigue. To him, it was a simple acknowledgement that Ray wanted him, wanted this. And then there were the words: 'I would.' Short. Simple. But they hit Cyrus just the same as if the mechanic was down on his knees, begging to join him.
He followed in silence after gulping down the rest of his beverage, letting his heavy feet thud against the worn wooden floors, eyes trained on the soft sway of Ray's hips as they moved ahead, how each buttock bulged against the fabric and made an impression. The hallway was narrow, cozy, and every step Cyrus took had his spine tingling in anticipation.
At the doorway, he paused, his broad hand rising to rest just above Ray's hip, not pulling, not forcing—just there, steady and warm, settling. "Tight squeeze is fine," he said lowly, voice thick with suggestion. "I've been inside tighter spots." A faint smirk played across his lips at his play of words, though the heat in his gaze told a different story—something far less playful, far more... carnal.
He stepped in first, the bathroom steaming gently from the still-warm shower, the mirror half-fogged, catching only the blurred outline of his tall frame. Cyrus reached back and pulled his shirt over his head in one fluid motion, letting it drop to the floor carelessly, his gaze focused on the stocky man. Cyrus' torso was all solid planes, of muscle and fat and rough-hewn lines, peppered with many old, sharp-white scars that were enhanced by his natural tanned skin tone. His attention came down, hands popping the button of his pants, the zipper rolled down, allowing the prominent bulge to become more available to feasting eyes. The white boxer briefs stretched to accommodate the flaccid nature of his sex, one could easily identify the pliant form of the shaft and the pronounced pink cut crown. He pushed his pants down to pool at his ankles, and made quick work of slipping off his underwear too to join the rest of his clothing. His cock sprung free. Even now, it's regular state, it was thick, heavy and drooped down between his toned, tree-trunk thighs.
Cyrus passed his hand briefly over it as he turned toward the shower. His back was a wide, tapering expanse of muscle that moved with slow, deliberate grace as he tugged off the last of his clothes from his ankles. His ass, smooth, robust and large, flexed involuntarily with every forward step to turn the shower on.
He stepped in without ceremony, but with a quiet, grounding confidence. The water hit his shoulders first, sending rivulets trailing down the curve of his spine, catching in the sharp lines of his lower back before sliding away. His breath left him in a low hum—half relief, half anticipation—as he tilted his head back and ran both hands through his buzzed short hair. It was so much easier to maintain.
The muscles in his arms flexed slightly with the motion, droplets sliding down his forearms and chest. He turned under the spray, his body illuminated briefly in a shaft of light that cut through the building hot steam, giving Ray a full view of him—strong, dripping, utterly unbothered by being watched. In fact, Cyrus leaned into it. Let him look. Soon enough, he would feel it against his back or his stomach. Whichever way Ray decided to face him.
Then, Cyrus decided to reach out past the sliding shower door, extending his large, strong hand, palm up, towards Ray's direction, awaiting for him to strip himself of his clothes and join him.
"Still room to squeeze in," he said, voice low and sultry. In actuality, Cyrus had taken up a fair amount of real estate inside the shower. What could he say? He was a very large, tall man. Tall enough for his head to be above the shower head and the top of the glass wall of the cubicle. His fingers curled, just slightly—a beckon, an invitation.
