He didn’t know I was watching him. He thought I was reading and the only reason he wasn’t bugging me about it was because he was so involved himself. And it wasn’t like I’d never seen him take a bath before. Coyle was always in the bath. He enjoyed bathing like I enjoyed poker. Hot water and suds up to his chin, a cigar in his mouth, brandy at hand, like a gentleman of leisure.

As was his habit, he had the tub arranged so it faced the hotel room door. I was sitting on the bed to his right and back a little so he couldn’t even see me peering over my book unless he turned his head a good ways in my direction. He wasn’t going to turn. He was in a world of his own and didn’t even know I existed. That was another thing that fascinated me about Coyle. The way he could lose himself in a dream.

That wasn’t a skill I had ever mastered. I was firmly grounded in reality, a fact that often came between us. But not today. Today, Coyle was lost in a dream, and I was lost in my book, but then he made that sound and I had to look up. It’s hard to describe, kind of a moan, kind of a sigh. It comes from deep in his chest and I’ve heard it often enough to know, know that he had to be touching himself under the warm water, know that he had his eyes closed and his mind set on images of . . . what?

That was what kept me from returning to the pages of my book, the wondering what. So I watched him, as if looking at him hard might help me see what was inside his head. He wasn’t smiling, but he never smiled when he was concentrating and boy, was he concentrating. He was making waves in the tub, agitating the water so much it slopped over the side.

I put my book down on the bed, pulled my knees up so my feet were planted on the mattress. I couldn’t see his hand, but I knew where it was, so I mimicked this motion, rubbing myself beneath the fabric of my trousers. I was half hard already just thinking about what I was seeing. I held my breath and bit my lip, wanting to hold back any noises I might make that would give the show away.

Coyle threw his head back so hard against the raised edge of the tub I was surprised it didn’t hurt. Maybe it did and maybe he didn’t notice. He was working hard now, more water sloshing out of the tub. The moans were louder, every few punctuated with a breathy ‘uh’ sound.

It was those noises that were driving me to distraction. Something about the sound of him caught in the throes of passion that just pushed me to the edge. I unbuttoned my fly, slipped my hand inside my trousers, inside my long johns. It was a tight fit, but I wiggled and adjusted until my fingers were firmly wrapped around my hardened member.

Now I had to work at staying quiet. The need to vocalize my rising lust was just so overwhelming, but I knew if I made a sound I’d pull Coyle away from his dream and that was the last