“I’m gonna shower,” Ezra says after a while.
“I’ll go,” Atlas sighs. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Ezra disappears around the bend after Atlas says his goodbye. I stay suspended, ruminating over all this new information, feeling the world crumbling and crashing down on my shoulders. We’re so small in the grand scheme of things that this feels too much to handle. Water starts in the bathroom. His voice is soft, and inaudible at first, but when he repeats my name, my heart skips a beat. It sounds like a prayer.
“Conin,” he says. “Can you come in?”
Chapter 47
Ezra
Steam swirls and sticks in a sheen of dew over the glass. The hot water cascades the length of my back, loosening the tension off my shoulders, traveling down and unknotting the deeply rooted aches. Regardless of how divine it feels, my heart is on fire.
There’s the hesitant pattering of footsteps on granite tiles. I turn my back to the shower door, ass exposed, eyes concentrated on the granite before me and the showerhead above. My heart patters, patters, patters an inharmonious beat. At any moment, it’ll burst out of my chest, present itself in all its bloody glory for Conin to see.
“Ezra? Is everything . . . okay?”
“Yeah,” I say quickly. “Um—”
I want, no, Ineedhis proximity, his closeness, the intimacy of our naked bodies. Someone to ease the staggering loneliness and quiet the thoughts that roar and roar and roar and won’t shut up. If this is selfish, then so be it.
“Can you . . . come in?”
The soft rustle of clothes falling to the floor reaches my ears despite the rush of water. The glass door opens and shuts quietly. I stare at the wall, nerves shot to hell. My scars, my body, everything that I’m not, up for display—up for judgment. My arms wrap tight around my abdomen, grazing the foundation of scars healed long ago. Conin’s dick is hard as he presses his stomach into the small of my back. There’s a noticeable difference in height between us; I’m several inches taller, but Conin rests his chin perfectly near the nape of my neck. He kisses me softly, kindly, lovingly.
“Is this, okay?” he asks.
It’s more than okay. It’s all I ever wanted, but my insecurities claw and rake forward, loud and destructive in their approach. I attempt to quell them, beg for them not to ruin the moment. It requires every ounce of energy I have, but I manage. They’re suppressed at the sidelines for now. This is okay. Conin wouldn’t do anything I didn’t allow him to.
“Yes,” I whisper.
The shower sprays over us as Conin trails kisses down my neck. Spine-chilling, but warmth blooms after each contact.
“Can I kiss you?”
“Yes.”
He turns me around, my ass planted on the tile wall. Conin kisses me fervently on the lips. They’re soft and knowing, his grin magnificent as he carefully explores. It sugarcoats my mouth, imparting a lingering sweet tang.
Spray runs in rivulets off his wet curls. Conin searches for my acknowledgment, then leans in to press our mouths together again. They glue against each other—fitting perfectly in their interlocked embrace. I graze his tongue, peruse his teeth with my own. He groans, a deep noise from his belly. I press a fingerto the soft bulge of his stomach. My eyes open in want for the invitation. He opens his own as well and leans his head back.
“C-can I?” I stutter.
“You like that I’m fat?” he asks as if he doesn’t believe me.
“I love it,” I say.
“Okay. Yes.”
We’re back to discovering our mouths and the directions they take us. My hand cups his belly, where wanting fingers press and feel this vulnerable part of him only I have permission to uncover. My fingers search for the skin, the tufted happy trail, the hair on his chest, and the spots that freckle it. Conin drinks in my image, my body, the scars that run up and down, twirl, and slash, the lacerations forever etched into my canvas.
Conin inches closer. His thumb brushes over a scar that gashes through my navel. I recoil. He reels back, watches me for permission. He won’t hurt me. He couldn’t ever do that. I tilt my chin up as an offering. He kneels, then presses his mouth on the scar, which memory is difficult to recall. I’m grateful for this.
“Your scars are beautiful, Ezra,” he says.
They’re painful reminders.
“I love them because they’re a part of you. I love everything about you, Ezra Gray.”
