Trembling hand

Marcus's POV/the bath scene

“Yes. You may wash me,” you say.

I’d be lying if I said that I expected it, your willingness to let me touch your naked skin.

But are you willing? You look more like you’ve swallowed something sour.

I would laugh at the sight of it but there’s something holding me back. And there’s something else giving me a pause, too: I don’t think I’m exactly thrilled about this, either.

Why?

And it looks like you’re thinking about it, too. You peer at me, expectantly. I’m almost afraid of what you see when you look at me. I can only hope my hesitation doesn’t show in my features, I don’t even know why it’s there in the first place. I should’ve probably thought this through.

You close your eyes, thank the gods. I didn’t need you peering into my soul like Justitia.

Your skin is still smooth like a piece of fresh parchment, you haven’t seen your share of battles. Your parents did a good job at shielding you from the evils of the world.

Before I brought it to your doorstep.

My hand catches my attention.

It trembles.

Disgust seeps into me, the sight of it makes me grimace. What’s wrong with me?

I should just give you a teasing massage and be done with it. I should make a mockery out of the situation.

Perhaps I should just take you. Defile you more than I already have.

The thought twists my stomach, forces bile into my throat.

Fuck fuck fuck. I rub my face and try to hold in a disgusted groan.

Disgust? At myself?

I steel my mind and shift closer to you, eager to get this over with. You’re going to wonder if something is wrong if I keep this foolishness going.

Your naked, vulnerable skin glows like ten braziers, it radiates their heat tenfold. I dare not to touch it.

What the fuck is wrong with me? Of course it’s not going to literally burn me.

But I still can’t will my hand to touch you.

“Don’t tell me the mighty Lord Centurion is afraid of washing a lowly barbarian?” you ask. Your words mock me, as they should. I would mock myself with you if I could be certain that my voice wouldn’t crack.

/

You hold your breath and await my touch.

You’re going to have to wait for a long time because there’s something seriously wrong with me.

“Marcus?” you ask. My first name in your lips feels too intimate. Why do you feel so comfortable with using it? Is it another part of your ploy? To confuse me further?

“You should wash yourself,” I say and almost flinch at the strained sound of my voice. I should definitely just leave. Why did I even come here?

Why did you let me here?

You move away from me, your burning heat subsiding with it. Fuck.

Why am I like this?

The cool wall of the pool makes me close my eyes. I don’t want to look at you, it makes things complicated and I don’t like it.

The air is heavy with fuckery. Your scrutinizing gaze lies heavily on me again.

“Don’t think,” I say to myself more than to you. Neither of us should think. Or perhaps that’s what brought us here in the first place.

Perhaps one of us should’ve thought, after all.