From where I lie on the bed, I can see him through the bathroom doorway. He is shaving. I watch the surprisingly elegant movement of his body, of his arms, as he slides the razor down his cheek, then lowers his arm to rinse the razor under the faucet. There is a distinct rhythm to his movement, never abrupt or erratic. Smoothly, up to his face, a glide over his skin, down to the sink, then back again. His torso twists slightly each time he lowers his arm, re-centering after the slight lean to the left or right depending on which side of his face the razor strokes. I am amazed at how engaging this sight is.

Nikolas shaving. Nikolas shaving in front of me. It now happens on a regular basis, but the thrill that runs through me as I watch is as unexpected as the first time. He wears only a damp blue towel wrapped around his waist, slung teasingly across his hips and coiled in a knot just below his belly. A few droplets of water glisten on his skin, errant reminders of the shower he has just completed.

I am hypnotized by his hand, rising and falling, caressing his face with the steel blade, as gently as he caresses mine in love. He is nearing completion, I can tell, as he raises his chin to stroke the blade upwards along his jaw. He arches his neck and I watch as the blade slips over the contours of his neck, slowly across his Adam's apple, stopping just short of his mouth. Wisps of shaving cream remain as his arm makes the final descent to rinse the razor. He shakes it dry and I watch his body ripple with the movement. He turns his back to me to dry his face on a towel. I study the muscles in his back. He has an exquisite back--firm, strong, lean, sculpted by an artist.

His soft skin stretches across the expanse of muscles like an endless prairie. I have felt those muscles many times as he lies above me, making love to me. I know their feel intimately. For now I am content to look. The fact that he is living and breathing in *my* bathroom only adds to the attraction. I study the muscles in him more diligently than I ever did in school. How they move, how they slide against each other, how they oscillate under his skin.

He is tidying up the bathroom, hanging the towels over the rack, putting his stuff back in the medicine cabinet. Every movement teaches me something. His body, his gracefulness, his power all converge in the muscles of his back. I have been watching him for years, long before this intimacy. The way he strides across the cottage I know as well as I know my own face. The way he unfolds his long legs when getting out of the car. The way he sits at his desk, one leg propped on the opposing knee, face resting on palm, elbow resting on desk. His lean proportions take time to scan--head to foot. My eyes have roamed that path many times, straying often to examine his lips, hands, curves and rises.

I have seen him at his strongest and at the edge of fragmentation. I wonder if he knows how often I have attended to him with my eyes, how often I have doctored him with my gaze. It is the way I have reminded myself every day of who he is, and what he means to me. It is the way I have willed him to life. He has finished organizing his things in the bathroom and finally turns toward me. He hesitates, stopping his turn upon seeing me looking at him. He holds my gaze, smiles slightly. I think I see a faint blush rise; a boyish look illuminates his face. He knows I have been watching him. He is beautiful.

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End of chapter One, Please e-mail any feedback by clicking on the mailbox below :)

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