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I didn’t see him come last time. I was too wrapped up in the explosion of my own orgasm, the stinging on my ass and the singing in my veins. I was too distracted to notice anything else until his hot spray coated my skin, and then it was basically over.
I want to see it now.
The movement of his hips slows, then stops altogether. His hand picks up the slack, pumping in quick, hard strokes, carving his triceps out of something akin to stone. My breath catches, and it takes everything I have not to reach my hand between my own legs and stroke the place that aches there. I try to tell myself I’m just feeling the aftershocks, lingering sensitivity from the other two orgasms, but I’m not. I’m reacting to this, here, now. Elio’s nakedness under the hot stream of the water as he strokes the cock I made swell.
He doesn’t shake or shudder or tremble when he comes. Instead, everything draws tight, muscles contracting almost like he’s in pain. And with his shoulder and scars, maybe he is. Maybe, with the beautiful ruin that is his body, pleasure is always entwined with suffering.
His thighs lurch, driving his hips forward as his head tips back. His hair is much straighter and longer in the water, dripping down the back of his corded neck like ink. A guttural groan rips through the air. It doesn’t matter that the sound of it is slightly muted by the water that patters like rain. Because it feels like Elio has put his mouth against my soaked entrance and groaned directly inside me. I feel the sound of it, each brutal vibration tightening in my core until I’m terrified. Terrified that I could come, just from that.
Terrified that he might turn around and see me.
I can’t let that happen. I stole this moment, but the second he knows I’m here, all my control will be lost. Elio’s head tips forward, his shoulders rounding slightly, before he turns off the water.
The silence crashes down like something catastrophic. A calamity of non-sound after the protective din of the water. I’m sure he can hear me breathing, even from across the room.
He can probably hear my fucking heart beat.
He most certainly hears my stumbling step backwards. I see the sudden alertness in his body as I move away.
If he turns, which I’m sure he does, I don’t see him do it.
Because so do I.
I run. My foot throbs with every hurried step I take.
And yet, every step hurts far less than it should. And I know it’s because of disinfectant and cushiony gauze and a murderously precise tape job.
I hurt less than I should because of Elio.
And I have absolutely no idea what to do with that.
Chapter 26
Deirdre
I wake to the now-familiar sound of cart wheels rolling into my room, but what’s unusual is the person pushing it. It’s not Rosa today, but Valentina.
“Hey,” she says, smiling at me as I hurry to sit up in bed. “I brought you the paper and stuff for the letter and saw Rosa with your breakfast. Figured I’d bring it all in together.”
“Thank you,” I say. I appreciate that she remembered my request. “I’m actually not sure if I’ll need it now. Willow found a way to contact me using someone else’s email address.”
“Oh, nice. OK. You can keep it anyway. Just in case.” She nods towards a pile of lined paper and envelopes on the cart beside the breakfast pastries. There’s another pot of tea today, thank God, and I mumble another thank you at her as I pour a cup.
“Want any?” I ask, suddenly remembering my manners. I mean, I feel like I can be forgiven for forgetting my manners in a situation like this. But still. I really do appreciate her looking out for me as best she can and wanting to try to connect me with the outside world. Offering her some tea seems like the least I can do.
But she just wrinkles her nose in a slightly less judgmental version of Rosa’s reaction.
“No thank you. In order to make tea even remotely palatable, I have to add insane amounts of sugar to it, and my mom is already on my ass about cutting carbs to fit into my wedding dress.”
I add milk and sugar, then take a sip.
“Yikes. I’m sorry,” is all I manage to mutter in reply to that little tidbit. Valentina is absolutely stunning with her curves, and I shake my head at the idea she needs to trim them down for a wedding she doesn’t even seem to want.
“Yeah. You’re telling me.” She shrugs, then heads towards the bathroom, pulling a lipstick tube out of a large leather bag that bumps her hips with every step. “Be right back,” she calls over her shoulder. I drink my tea and eat a croissant while Valentina freshens up, and a few minutes later she returns, her lips freshly painted pink. Her long hair is perfectly straight and shiny, dark golden-blonde at the roots and lighter towards the ends, and she’s dressed in a denim romper with incredibly short shorts despite the fact it’s January.
“What’s with the first aid kit and gloves?” she asks. There’s a deceptive lightness in her tone. Like she’s just trying to make conversation, but is actually intensely focused on my answer. I think her interest comes from a genuine place of concern, and I force a small smile, sliding my foot out of the blankets and leaning back to heft it up in the air.
“I ran into a situation with a broken cup.” My smile turns bitter. “But Elio patched me up.”
