Now is when he thinks where do I put my hands? Touching her clearly isn't out of bounds, but the idea of it seems uncomfortably intimate right now; standing there with his arms at his sides makes him feel like a ragdoll. It's the easier choice, though, and so he resigns himself to being her limp plaything.

Well.

Not as limp as he'd like, in one area. Her hands scrub soap over his chest and down his stomach and sides, and his prick responds as though it's the guest of honor at a banquet. He's standing at full attention before she reaches his hips, his gaze somewhere over and to the side of her head, as though pretending he's not aware of just how desperate this must look. (Her touch may as well be magic, though - she skims over him with exactly the right pressure, missing none of him on the way, and he's apparently lacking in self-control. Not that he expects she'll mind, but her tolerance doesn't quite ease his embarrassment.)