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Cass seemed to ignore him—at least not acknowledging him as she savored the warmth in the shower spray, the feel of the soap flushing over her skin. Tim didn’t have the energy to alert her to his presence or to register what was happening or really to do anything. He just seemed to gawk at her. 

He’d known she had scars, but they vanished in comparison with her svelte body, piquant little curves. Her skin creamy and clear, her scars old and faded, unable to compete with the youthful exuberance of how her taut ass curved out from her trim hips.

“You shouldn’t stare at me…” she said, callously washing herself as if he weren’t supposed to eye that. “It’ll make you… excited…” She turned around, then seeing the stiff erection that the sight of her had elicited. “Oh… too late…”

“I can,” Tim began falteringly, “ignore it.”

“It’s a lot… to ignore,” Cass observed. “Are you going to… wash my back?”

“Should I?” Tim asked, but it came out as “Can I?”

“That’s the expression, isn’t it? You wash my back, I wash yours?”

Cass turned away from him; Tim felt robbed, realizing that in scrutinizing the look on her face for any sign she was about to assassinate him for intruding on her, he hadn’t given her NC-17s their due diligence, like, at all.

“It’s good to be clean,” she said with that coy innocence that made Tim remember that for all her inexperience, that body language of hers meant she knew every pornographic thought a man could have.