Still, I don’t stop. Don’t talk.
I feel.
The moment I slide the brush over her breast, pressing the strip to her hardening nipple, my jaw locks hard enough to ache.
My fingers clutch the brush, nearly cracking it in half. She notices, and a subtle shiver run through her.
I could stay like this forever. Treat her as my art. Watch her body respond to me.
It isn’t possible, though. I have to talk.
We both need it.
“It’s just water.” This explanation has nothing to do with her, me, or our past. It’s what I have. “Nothing permanent.”
“Duncan, hey.” Her voice is soft. Asking without demanding.
“Not yet.”
“Talk to me.” She lifts her hand. One raised eyebrow from me, and she drops it. “I think it’s time.”
Another strip hangs loose at her ribs. The brush follows the curve of her side, slow and precise.
My gaze doesn’t leave hers as I soak it again. As I drag the moment, stirring the brush in the jar, tormenting myself and her.
Pain and lust run through me, tightening my chest. Stiffening my cock.
“I never regretted kissing you,” slips out before I can stop myself. “It’s impossible to regret something I needed so badly.”
Elowyn’s reaction isn’t something I could anticipate. She arches her back slightly, offering herself. Thanking me for opening up.
This isn’t the time to thank or forgive me. And yet she’s doing both.
Good, kind, perfect Elowyn. My dream girl.
How did we end up here, instead of curled up on a couch watching an old movie with our kids, our dogs?
Barclay. Me. The universe.
That’s how.
The thumping in my head returns in full force, causing me to hurl the jar at the wall. Glass breaks, splinters. The sound is a roar blaring in the mostly empty room.
Elowyn’s eyes squeeze shut. She gathers herself quickly, opening them again, staring at me. Doesn’t flinch at what she sees on my face.
Fuck, I want that girl. I’m throbbing for the woman she’s grown into.
“What did I do, then?” she asks.
I keep going as if nothing’s happened, sliding my brush lower. Past her navel. Her hips.
There’s enough water soaking the bristles that the bandage clings in place.
Maybe it’s a sign that it’s never too late.
That if something is right, it doesn’t take much to make it work. A few drops of water, or in our case, feelings, and anything could happen.
Unable to contain my need for her, I curl my hand around her throat and slide the brush, now dry, lower, almost reaching the bandage covering Elowyn’s pussy.
