In a dark room, I was gently woken by Marcel Kittel. From where he stood beside the bed, he leaned across me, placing one hand on the cotton sheets next to my shoulder and moving slowly closer. I stroked his smooth naked back, and curled my palms and fingers around his muscular shoulders with a sigh.
After a few moments, the stillness of the night was broken by his husky whisper in German-accented English.
“Ze toilet in my room… eet ees broken.”
I followed a topless Marcel along the hotel corridor and he led me to his bathroom, where there was a gushing sound as water was constantly running into the toilet bowl. I soon had the cistern lid off, jiggled a few plastic bits, and miraculously fixed the problem. My handsome blond companion shot me a captivating smile and looked immensely impressed.
“I just need to wash my hands”, I grinned seductively, washing and scrubbing my hands thoroughly. I wouldn’t want to transfer any germs onto this fine German now, would I? Especially not in the middle of a Grand Tour.
Marcel had other ideas. “Have a shower instead!”
And there he was, in the shower wearing a clingy white t-shirt and white pyjama shorts with water cascading over every rippling muscle in film star perfection. He nodded for me to join him, which I did. Well, it would have been rude not to?
“I can’t do anything,” he spoke quietly, his voice barely audible over the sound of the shower stream, “it’s a sprint stage tomorrow.”
The next morning, Marcel caught my eye across the hotel lobby and he gave me a subtle sexy wink.
We both knew it wasn’t a sprint stage the following day.