“Well,” you start.
That’s all you manage because he’s rendered you speechless. He has a tendency to do that. You stretch the towel out in front of you, an open invitation, and tell him, “Here.”
He leans forward, expectant. He wants you to drape it around his shoulders so that’s exactly what you do, rubbing the hard, cold flesh to life beneath your hands. Worn terry is all that separates your skin from his. He watches you carefully, gauging you, and when you bring the two ends of the towel together beneath his chin, he touches your chest tentatively.
Your heart quickens at the touch, the ghost of fingers through your shirt, and you clench the towel in your hands. You want to take it slow, remember? This is supposed to last a while. You’ve been waiting all day for this.
“There,” you say, your voice deeper than usual, thick to your own ears. “That should warm you up some.”