It’s fine at first. Just water falling. Nothing crazy. But then Blaise starts humming and making more mindless sounds. None of it is loud or obscene, but it’s impossible to ignore, to blur into white noise like the shower itself.
Blaise Sinclair, head quarterback of the Wilmington Juggernauts, whom I have on good authority as being on the verge of legendary in the NFL, is in my shower. He’s naked, scrubbing his body, potentially with my washcloth or my sponge, using my soap.
He had my apartment cleaned and vacuumed my car.
He’s naked and scrubbing himself clean in my shower. Sounds like he’s doing a thorough job of it, and there’s a point when he makes this sound, and I know, I just know, he’s realized that my shitty showerhead actually gives the best neck massage.
Everything’s weird after giving birth. The body’s weird, of course, but the brain is too. Hormones are all over the place, and coupling it with fatigue makes it hard to focus on the rightstuff. I’m finally home and safe and healthy enough, and my newborn son is cuddled in my arm, nursing with a latch that everyone in the hospital said I should feel really proud of because he’s a bit premature.
And instead of thinking about that, I’m thinking about a man whom I have no business thinking about. I’m thinking of him in the shower.
Thankfully, hot and bothered is pretty much out of the question. My body’s not even close to being ready for that. But it’s also not ready for the fact that I’m so dozy from the dopamine and pain medication and life in general that I forget myself at the screech of the faucets. My attention flips back to the bathroom just in time to watch Blaise push open the door to the shower and step out to find a towel.
Sweet baby Jesus.
I’ve seen him essentially naked. We all have. We all saw the photoshoot of him getting out of that pool last year. We all saw what his white shirt was clinging to. We all wondered what was lighting, what was muscle, and what wasbulgein his swim trunks.
He’s firm and muscular, but there’s a natural, fleshier build to him. I know he must work incredibly hard every single day, but not to match an aesthetic — to keep himself in the physical condition he needs to be in to be Blaise Sinclair, NFL quarterback.
So he has the slightest softness at his belly. His upper body is toned but not massive, valuing flexibility as much as strength. His thighs and calves are dense.
Also, I know I shouldn’t be looking,I know, but that’s alotof dick, considering it’s just hanging out right now.
My brain’s definitely more mush than it should be because I continue to stare at him as he wanders around thebathroom like he owns it, finding a towel and mindlessly drying his dark, vibrant flesh, spraying himself with deodorant he digs out of a toiletry bag, leaving it on the counter as he gets out a toothbrush and scrubs for the full two minutes, flossing and everything.
He gets out shaving cream and a razor and trims up his face, cleaning off the shadow that was honestly a bit charming if for no other reason than the fact he’s always clean-shaven in public. I’m a bit surprised he does it himself; I would have thought someone raking in the sort of money I’ve heard he makes had a regular barber. But I suppose it’s easy to make assumptions that money changes everyone’s lives the same way. He wears a ton of designer clothes, and I know he’s got a fancy sports car, but I haven’t seen it at all this week and he’s been getting his meals at the hospital cafeteria and the chain sub shop across the street.
He finally puts on a pair of boxer shorts — obnoxiously neon shorts with a designer brand waistband — and pads out of the bathroom on light feet.
He stares right at me as he leaves the brightly lit bathroom. I should have turned my head away at some point, but I didn’t. I’m tired.
“Need help switching sides?” he says with a grunt, his voice gravelly in the most delicious way. I’m about to say no, I usually sleep on this side of the bed, but then he nods to Donovan. “He probably needs to switch, right?”
“Oh. Yeah.”
This time, he does put his hand right on my boob, pressing his thumb down on my nipple to release Donovan’s latch. He holds him as he makes a shooing gesture at me. “Go on, get to the other side.”
“What? No, I’mfine here.”
“But if you drop Donovan, he’ll fall on the floor.”
I scowl. “I’m not going to drop him.”
“Hopefully not. But better safe than sorry.”
I concede the point and scoot over, even though it’s an adventure, what with the back rest and leg wedge I constructed for myself. Blaise cuddles with Donovan the whole time, though, and every time I glance up at them, it tugs at my heartstrings in a way that should hurt but doesn’t.
Donovan’s not going to grow up with this experience, his daddy holding him and bouncing him, kissing and tending to him. But even if he’ll have no memory of this moment, he’s getting it now. I can’t be upset about something he was never going to experience at all if not for this random bit of events.
Blaise studies my face shrewdly when I get settled and reach up, like he doesn’t want to hand Donovan over. “You’re crying,” he observes.
Crud. Maybe I did get upset. I have a lot of emotions right now, that’s all.
“Hormones. Gimme.”
Blaise chuckles for half a second, then scowls.
Did I crack a bit of whatever makes him hate me? I don’t know, but it was a victory immediately taken away. He does settle Donovan back down on me, so I’ll accept that.
