He strokes my cheek again, sending a flurry of activity breaking across my skin. “Do you need my help with something?” His dilated eyes bounce between mine as he steps closer—like there’s any room left. “These are your confused cheeks, aren’t they, freckles?”
“Um…” Too scared at the thought of losing him as a friend, I don’t kiss him as my heart is screaming at me to do. I downplay the tension by asking if he wants to sign up to be my body pillow again.
Even that seems a stretch when my eyes land on the file behind him. It reminds me that he’s not here for me and that I’m not meant to be wasting my time on anyone but Kendall’s abductors.
“I’m joking. I was just…” Out of lies, and not eager to use them again so soon after pledging not to issue this man even a little white lie, I mumble a second “Night” before heading to the bedroom to sulk in privacy.
My steps into my room slow when I notice a glass bottle sitting on the mattress. Its liquidity consistency isn’t obvious until I read the label.
Perineal massage oil.
I swallow loudly enough for Adeline to hear, and Grayson has me wishing he had placed squeaker dots on his socks instead of non-slip ones. “It’s safe for all regions of your body. Including…” A cough finalizes his reply.
Though I could end this conversation now and die a thousand deaths in peace, the past two hours of normality have my heart speaking first. “Am I meant to just rub it in or…?”
When he remains quiet, I spin to face him. His cheeks are as red as mine feel, and although I can’t see my eyes, I’m confident they’re as dilated as Grayson’s.
“There’s an entire chapter on perineal massages in your book.” He gestures his head at the book I’ve spied him reading on a handful of occasions over the past few days. “It gives a few pointers on how to use the oil to prepare for childbirth.” He enters the room, filling it with his delicious scent, before he thumbs through the book he referenced. Once he finds the page, he licks his lips before peering at me through hooded eyes. “It even gives examples.”
The diagrams are graphic for a novice of graphic romance novels, but they paint the entire picture of perineal massages.
After taking in a passage that explains how the daddy-to-be can assist the mother with perineal stretching, I ask through a burning throat, “Do you think it will help?”
Grayson’s Adam’s apple bobs before he shrugs. “There’s no harm in trying. It won’t hurt anything. It will just loosen you up a little.”
Again, I continue flogging the dead horse I haven’t let rest today. “Okay. I’ll give it a go.”
“Now?” Grayson’s voice is so loud that if Adeline was asleep, she isn’t anymore.
“No, not now. Later.”
I can’t tell if it is disappointment or relief that crosses Grayson’s features. Whatever it is, it sees him mouthinggoodnight again before he exits my bedroom as fast as he entered it.
After placing his gift on the bedside table, I change into sleepwear and then slip between the sheets. I groan, hating that the bedding is no longer swamped in Grayson’s scent. Last night, the sheets were drenched with his delicious aroma.
I toss and turn for several long minutes, vying to get comfortable. When no amount of rolling lightens the weight of my stomach, I flop onto my back and stare at the ceiling. For several long minutes, I pretend the bottle I dumped onto the bedside table isn’t calling my name. The more I ignore it, the more it beckons me.
I’m not horny. I am merely eager to prepare my body for the birth of my child.
Yeah, right. If you believe that, you’ll believe anything.
I pray for the weightlessness of a feather when I slip out of bed and pad toward my bedroom door. Grayson left it partially open, and although I acted as if I were perfectly okay discussing personal matters out loud, I’ve never had sex with the lights on. The thought of touching myself is daunting enough, so there’s no way I could do it with the risk of being caught higher than necessary.
I breathe a little easier when I fail to find the shoes Grayson cleaned earlier today under the hallway table. They must be on the feet of their owner, who can burn off energy with a run since he doesn’t have a tennis ball pressing against the opening of his uterus.
Although I am alone and confident Grayson won’t be back for at least an hour, I brace the hinges on my door before closing it. When it closes without a squeak, I practically skip back to my bed, confident I can ease the tingles running rampant through my veins in under ten minutes.
The elastic on my underwear snaps against my skin when I slide them down my thighs with an eagerness I haven’t experienced in years. After kicking the damp material to the side, I snatch up the bottle of oil before slipping back beneath the sheets.
The pamphlet that came with the oil states that I should place two fingers inside myself, gently apply downward pressure toward my backside, then sweep my fingers to the sides.
My oiled-up fingers head in the opposite direction.
I tickle them past my clit and dip them between the delicate lines of my vagina before I coat the tips with a residue more slippery than the oil. My vagina dampens long before I brace my fingers at the opening. I’ve felt moist for hours, so this isn’t surprising.
Although penetration is nice, I pay more attention to my clit than the sweet spot inside me that no man has ever caressed. I roll it between my thumb and index finger before rotating it clockwise.
The buzz feels good, though it also feels weird.
