“Jesus, Blythe,” he growls through a moan when he comes.
There’s nothing like a shower with Chris.
When we’re both satiated—for now—I lather him up. I figure we have another five minutes before the hot water is gone. The automatic outdoor lights have come on, and I admire how strikingly gorgeous Chris is. When his hair is dry, it always hangs in soft waves around his face, so I push it back under the shower spray and gaze up at him. That hard jawline, those green eyes, the perfect shape of his mouth…
He smiles down at me. “Hi.”
“Hi, back.”
“I didn’t make dinner,” he confesses. “I was too hot for you to focus on boring cooking.”
“It’s okay. Because, while you’re a great cook, you’re an even better lover.”
I kiss his chest and let my hands roam over his back. He doesn’t flinch anymore when I trace the many scars, even when I touch his back. I know exactly how to rest my arm against him so that the scar on my forearm fills the break in the line of the significant one that crosses from his shoulder to his lower back. Chris holds me tight as I do it this time. It’s become an unspoken symbol to us, a connection too uncanny and powerful to speak about often.
We just let it be.
I move my arm and continue touching his skin. While the scar that connects us is the biggest, it is not the only one he has. Courtesy of his father, there are more—a few I know the stories behind, a few I don’t. Certain ones, he won’t talk about. Christopher’s father was sick but smart, I suspect. He was careful that the result of his abuse would be easy to hide under clothing.
This shower feels like a reunion of some sort, so I take my time now to explore his body again, the entire shape of Chris. I work my hands over every inch of his skin. He holds still while I lower myself to slowly trace the line from his ankles to his waist, to slide my hand between his legs, and to reach back further and stroke a finger over him. I continue to move over his form, relishing every curve. My mouth tastes the water running over his hip bone, over his lower back, over his ass. This man has a gorgeous ass, so I take my time.
I entwine my fingers with his when I later move up and stand on my tiptoes to kiss his shoulder and his neck. I touch the solid strength in his lean chest and arms. I could do this for hours.
It can be difficult to get Chris to relax fully, but I feel him ease into my touch as his muscles drop their tension. He watches me with interest, as though slightly amused or curious that I still find him and his body as exciting as I always have. He should understand though, given the care and thoroughness with which he makes love to me so often.
His expression changes when my hands move from his waist to the top of his torso and then to just under his armpits. It’s a subtle change—a flicker of fear in his eyes. It’s only because I know him so well that I catch it.
My heart sinks because I know this look, and I know what’s coming.
I hold my touch where it is. “It’s all right, Chris. Don’t be scared.”
He nods.
“Left side or right?” I ask.
“My right,” he says evenly.
I inch my left hand up and feel for it. It takes my force of will for me to stay calm. As many times as I’ve seen Chris naked and as well as I know his body, I’ve just found another scar. It’s not exactly in a highly visible place, not somewhere I often have my hands, so I failed to notice this one. Or maybe I didn’t want to acknowledge it. Chris has enough nightmare stories as it is.
But because it’s important, becausetruthis important, and because I want him to keep releasing secrets, I very softly rub my fingers until I find texture changes. This scar is about two inches long and an inch wide. I could fucking kill myself for never feeling this before. The skin here is so tender, and I feel sick over the pain Chris must have felt when this was inflicted on him.
He looks away while I touch him, but he doesn’t stop me.
“Do you want to tell me about this one?”
Christopher takes a deep breath and forces a smile. Finally, he makes eye contact and shrugs. “I was egging him on, mouthing off. He retaliated.”
He isn’t telling me the truth. He wouldn’t have prodded his father. Chris has always done what he can to facilitate peace, not ignite war.
“You don’t want to tell me about it?”
He thinks for a moment. “I don’t.”
My fingers keep moving. “It’s a burn?”
“It’s a burn.”
“It must have been…” I refuse to choke on my words. “It must have been very painful.”
