I hate the way Cecily's voice has shrunk, lost its characteristic strength. I hate the way she carries those seven words around in her heart, in her mind.
A lie. Cecily believes a lie. How can I show her how wrong her dad was back then? And still is today?
I hold her until her skin pebbles and I realize she's cold.
"How are you feeling down there?" I wince at the words. My fault, my fault. I'll make it up to her.
"Better," she says. She sounds tired.
"We should rinse off the milk. The sugar in it will make us sticky."
Cecily sits up, removing the stopper from the drain.
"No," she says when she sees me getting out of the bathtub. "Stay." She pulls the bra over her head. "Shower with me."
"Ok," I agree quickly. I'd never pass on the opportunity to wash her. To hold her under the warm spray.
It's precisely what I do. I'm gentle with her, and even more careful of the tender space between her thighs. She lays her head on my chest while I run soapy hands over her back, and my heart pulls a cartoon character move and beats a heart-shape straight out of my skin.
Cecily is opening up to me. This infuriating, sexy, stubborn woman is letting me in.
I know what it's like to earn my way. I attended college with kids who didn't need a job to pay for books, who weren't taking on debt to get an education. My collegiate strides pale in comparison to the satisfaction I feel at earning Cecily's trust. Her vulnerability.
I turn her around. Run soap slickened hands over her breasts. She arches into me. Moans. Nipples need extra cleaning. I don't make the rules.
When I'm finished, Cecily steps behind me. "My turn," she says, husky.
She runs her hands all over my body, with a reverence I can barely comprehend. This is a side of Cecily she keeps locked up tight. Caring. Sweet. I like when she's spicy, but I like when she's sweet, too. I fear I may like when she iseverything.
Between the elevator before I knew she was in pain, the milk bath, and washing Cecily, I am painfully hard. Cecily's touch slides over my stomach, then lower. She grips me with one hand, dragging me. So slow. My head tips back, eyes finding the ceiling.
"Cecily." Her name pours from my lips, a groan. "Not fair, after what I did to you."
"It's not about fairness." Her words are soft against my back. The warm water hits my chest, and her hand continues to work. "It's about giving you what you need, when you need it."
Add generous to Cecily's ever-growing list of attributes.
I look down at Cecily's hand, watching her movements. "I can't believe I ever thought you were mean."
She smiles, and I feel the curve of her lips. "I'm still mean. And you know you like it."
I jerk in her hand. She's right. I fucking love it when she's mean. "You can do what you want, Chestnut, but when you're feeling better, I'm going to be so nice to you."
"Is that right?"
"I'm going to fuck my wife the way a husband should."
The words are out of my mouth before I consider them. I wait for her to falter, to chide me, to remind me what it is we're really doing. But it only spurs her on. She grips me tighter, pumps faster. Finally, she says, "You can't say stuff like that right now."
"You're right, you're right, I?—"
"The blood flow hurts," she interjects.
The blood flow...oh.
"Sorry," I murmur, feeling bad but not for long because the pleasure is coiling tight, and then bursting, and my eyes squeeze shut.
"Fuck," I groan, bracing my arm on the wall.
