Long pale, perfectly sculpted legs. Hips that sung and glutes that seemed fashioned by the Gods. A waist that drifted ever so delicately to six well worked muscles, and arms that could squeeze the life out of an opponent. All topped off by waist length, feather-soft red hair.
He wanted to reach forward and wrap himself around it; envelope his being in the strange yet deliciously arousing feeling that was emanating from his groin. And yet he couldn't seem to lift his legs forward, his arms were stuck like stone at his sides. But his eyes gazed, unblinking, in awe and beastly desire as the figure slowly turned in a cloud of steam to face him.
Features obscured by the wet air, the man reached toward a thick white towel. Wrapping it carefully around his waist, he revealed quite a bulge tween his legs.
A trickle of drool fell from his lips that he could only let be. His breathing quickened as the figure began the process of lotioning his thick arms and chest, slowly moving to lift his foot up onto the counter top. As the figure did so, the towel slipped briefly to reveal a proud member that seemed to call to him.
The figure clothed himself beneath the towel and leaned into the mirror.
His breath stopped in his throat, trying to trap those images, especially the last, in his mind before the moment had entirely passed. But it was no use. Only the true, real, up close and personal could satisfy the shuddering and aching his groin was sending through his body.
He wanted it on him.
He needed it in him.
But it had always been a prized possession of his, a commodity that he alone could always say he had. Self control.
Yet, they were alone. He was ready. If only his legs would work then he could jump up and take what his body pleaded for and his mind warned against. Press his lips against the beautiful creation before him and lap at its scent and taste until he could absorb not a single drop more. Though still he would grasp at that member and suck its sweetness as if his life depended on it. Plead with his own for that member to enter his disheveled, weak flesh.
Again and again until he fell to pieces before the body he so longed for.
But-
A door slammed somewhere upstairs and the floorboards creaked.
Opening his eyes, Hiei let his Jagan close and covered it quickly as Kurama descended the stairs behind him.
Crossing his arms, he leaned against the chilled windowpane to cool the sweat from his body.
As he came to the living room where Hiei sat, Kurama finished drying his hair and sat on the couches armrest.
"The bath is ready if you'd like one," he said. "Though the water may be a bit cold. Sorry."
Kurama turned to the kitchen to make a cup of tea as Hiei watched his reflection in the window.
'I may need that.' He thought darkly, biting his lip in a control hold.