When I finally look at his face, worry is written all over it. From the crease between his brows to the stern, flat line of his mouth.
“Okay, but just don’t look at me,” I say. “I don’t want you to see me naked.”
“You didn’t seem to feel that way two nights ago.”
“Well, that was then. And this is now. And don’t be a butthead.” I groan again as I try to hook my finger into my sock to get it off.
“Believe it or not, I’ve seen boobies before,” he says. “I promise I won’t make a big deal out of it. Just let me help you.”
“Okay.” I’m relenting mostly because I think the water will be cold by the time I get myself undressed. “But you have to let me see your penis. You know, to make it fair.”
“What? No,” he says.
“Waylon,” I whine. “That’s only fair.”
“Listen, darlin’. If you let me help you get into this tub like a good girl, I might show him to you. But you gotta get in.”
I narrow my eyes at him. I don’t like the way he said that. Or maybe I do. I haven’t decided yet. But either way, I hold my arms up so he can slip my shirt off. My shoes and pants follow. When my bra goes, I study his face closely. His throat bobs, but he never breaks eye contact.
He helps me stand, gripping my left hand as I use my right to push my panties down. They pool at my feet, and I step into the tub and sit with my back to Waylon.
He clears his throat as he takes a seat on the edge next to me. Without a word, he dips the loofah he’s holding into the water and pulls it back out. He gives it a gentle squeeze over my shoulder and then begins to run it over my skin.
“Feel better?” he asks, brushing my hair back out of the way as he continues to run the loofah over my collarbone.
“Mmm, yes.” My shoulders sink under his touch.
He dips the loofah again and runs it over my other shoulder. And even though I can still feel some cramping, I’m not lying when I say it’s much better. The hot water is so soothing, I could probably fall asleep in here. My body has been in knots all day, but it finally feels like it’s untying itself.
Waylon washes across my shoulders, down my back to the water line, and then hands me the scrubber he’s using so I can wash everywhere else.
He sits down on the floor, his back against the tub, so it’s like we’re back-to-back. For a few minutes, there’s only the sound of my body moving through the water.
“I’m going to run and get you that ibuprofen,” he says.
“Can you get me some pajamas from my top right drawer?”
“Of course.” He nods and leaves the bathroom.
I take advantage of his absence and raise my arms up over my head, arching back to get a really deep stretch. My breasts hit the cool air above the water line and my nipples pucker. What does it say that he didn’t look at me when he was helping me into the tub? I mean, not even a little peek. On the one hand, Waylon is a good guy and not a sleezy asshole, and I like that about him. On the other hand, his rejection has caused me to wish that upon seeing me, he couldn’t resist the temptation of looking. Before you ask, I, too, know that what I’ve said are two opposing ideas.
“Oh, fucking hell,” I hear him exclaim from just outside the door.
I know what happened before I even ask. “Did you open the leftdrawer instead of the right one?” I tip my head back, waiting for an answer.
“Um, yes,” he says, sliding back into the bathroom. “That would be exactly what I did.”
I laugh, imagining what his face must’ve looked like upon seeing my collection.
“So, uh”—he clears his throat—“you, uh, like them tentacle shaped, huh?”
I laugh harder, in an unashamed way. I’m definitely not. But I do think it’s hilarious. “What can I say? I don’t shape discriminate. I like variety. But right now, yes. The tentacles are in heavy rotation.” I shrug, lapping at the water. The bubbles have begun to dissipate.
“Is it what you were using the other night?”
I keep my cool, despite not knowing where this line of questioning is going. “Yes.”
“Were you being… loud on purpose?”
