Cocks hidden under white towels, to be precise. It's not strong enough to be a kink, but it's definitely a fondness ...
I mean - look what fun guys can have!
So here's an excerpt from my vampire novel Red Grow the Roses, on the very subject:
Reynauld’s voice, in my head. My heart thumped.
Moving quickly, I walked through the house. The marble-clad master bathroom was warm with steam as I entered, and the lights low. He stood with his back to me behind the layered arms of the glass screens, his head bowed and shoulders set angrily, outstretched fingertips on the polished black marble and the water running full-blast at the back of his neck. I watched the water swirl around his dark feet, running into the drain between them and carrying away the grime and the tension and the lust. I saw the way he rolled his shoulders under the flow, working each stubborn muscle. Inside me something clenched with an exquisite, tender pain.
How could my heart not melt for a man who craved a long hot shower?
I didn’t say anything. He knew I was there, and he would instruct me if he wished to. Instead I retrieved a fresh white towel from the cupboard and waited, watching him. I could follow the ebb of his anger by the way his shoulders slowly sagged, the way he finally moved to rub his neck and scalp, playing the water through his dark hair and then across his chest and down his torso. He soaped himself and I wished it were my hands massaging that body, my fingers chasing the suds cascading down his skin.
At last he turned off the water and stood there dripping, still facing the wall. I kicked off my heels and stepped between the arms of glass to hand him the towel, my eyes lingering on the water drops clinging to his skin, on the wet curls at the back of his head, on the runnels licking their way down his back and thighs. Reynauld wrapped the towel about his hips and tucked it in, then turned and set his back to the corner of the shower, leaning against the angled marble. His expression was haunted; he looked so weary and despairing that my heart felt like it would crack.
‘I handled that badly, didn’t I?’
What? I wanted to ask - You mean humiliating Naylor in front of everyone like that? Yes, I’d call that badly handled.
I shrugged one shoulder and did not answer.
‘I shouldn’t have lost my temper. He just makes me so angry. Why won’t he listen? - Is it so difficult to understand, what I’m trying to say?’
‘I think you should have killed him, to be honest. He’s a psychopath.’
‘We’re all killers.’ His voice was ragged.
That wasn’t what I’d meant, but I couldn’t argue with him. How can you possibly make a man twelve centuries older than you listen to a word you say? It’s bad enough with ordinary men – can you imagine a forty year old taking advice from a teenager of sixteen? Now try and grasp the gap between Reynauld and me. If I were like him, if I were knit of strength and night and savage need, then he might hear me. But I wasn’t, and never would be. I just looked at the water beaded on his bare chest and wanted in my frustration to strike him, to bruise him, to pin him to the wall and kiss him until he realised how much I loved him.
I think he saw the pain in my eyes, mirroring his own. With a curl of his fingers he gestured me closer and I dared to lay a hand on his bare chest. The feet of my stockings were soaked from the shower tray.
‘Oh Amanda,’ he whispered. He took my face tenderly in both hands, brushing his knuckles across my cheek, using his thumbs to stroke the paths of my bones. His eyes narrowed, his lips parting. I trembled, knowing that he could sense my desire: he’d be able to feel the race of my blood beneath his fingertips, hear my painfully pounding heart – and to smell the heat of my sex.
I was almost dancing against him now, making dark damp patches on my top as I pressed my breasts against his wet chest. Abandoning caution I reached to his crotch, to the layers of thick soft towelling and the unmistakable bulge of his hardening cock beneath. As I grabbed it he vented a groan. The towel began to slip from about his hips.
‘Oh God,’ I mumbled into his skin. ‘Oh God.’
When I lifted my burning face from his chest, the towel was no longer wrapped around his bare hips but hung from the erect baton of his cock, held there by my tight right hand. We both looked down at it, and I gave it a slow hard squeeze through the heavy towelling before letting the fabric slip to the floor. That turgid flesh didn’t yield at all. His cock was stiff once more, his balls riding high in a scrotum no longer soft and velvety but now tight and bulging. I brushed cock and balls with unsteady fingertips: he would take me now. He would take me and fuck me and bite me and that was exactly what I wanted.
‘Amanda...’ His voice was a whisper. He bit his own lip. The ache in his voice persuaded me to meet his gaze. ‘Would you...?’
No completion to that question. No words for what he wanted. Just his glance tentatively indicating his cock. My eyes widened as I understood, my heart kicking against my breastbone. In twenty-seven years he’d never asked this of me, and I’d never seen him ask or permit it of any woman. It wasn’t even thinkable. Vampires did not do that.
He swallowed. ‘Please.’
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