“But aren’t you uncomfortable?”
I snort. “You mean blue balls?”
She shrinks in on herself. “My ex used to claim it was this huge deal. I’ve read conflicting things online, but most articles by men insist it’s absolutely real. I don’t exactly have a lot of guys I can fact-check with.”
“Your ex was a manipulative ass,” I say bluntly. “And blue balls isn’t a fucking medical problem. There’s an art to anticipation.”
“Oh, is that what I should call my three-year dry spell?” She leans against the bathroom counter, arms crossed. “The art of anticipation?”
“After my Olympic win, I went fucking crazy. Parties, people, pleasures. You name it. Ended up so spiritually bankrupt I signed up for this intense silent retreat. Forty-five days. No talking, no pleasure. Nosoloadventures.”
Her lips part, and the steam curls around us, making the space feel more intimate. “You went that long without…?” The way her words fade, her cheeks flushing, is unfairly adorable.
“I discovered I like the tease of waiting,” I say quietly, moving closer. I haven’t touched myself in thirty-six days, haven’t sought comfort in anyone else either. There’s something perverse in this calculated restraint, but watching her process the implications makes every second of waiting worthwhile. When I get to share a release with her, as long as she’ll have me, it’ll be earth-shattering. My finger traces the curve of her arm. “Makes everything more…intense. When you finally let go after all the buildup? It’s transcendent. Tantric, even.”
“Tantric?” she squeaks.
“Ancient practice of prolonging pleasure. Building energy. Making every touch…” I let my voice trail off. “Here.” I grab a fresh, fluffy towel from the shelf, setting it on the counter along with a new bar of lavender soap. “Take your time. Think about it.”
She shyly closes the door, and I return to the living room.
In the armory, she’d looked at me with this raw vulnerability, pupils blown wide, lips parted. Like she was seeing something new.
She trusted me. Wanted me. Not the version I show at parties or competitions, but the real thing. When I’d touched her, she’d made these small sounds, arched up against my hand. She’d let me kiss her neck while her skin burned against mine.
Soon Reese joins me in the living room, wrapped in my towel, smelling like my soap. The domesticity of it hits somewhere deep and animal. I want to press her against the wall, but I don’t. Every will in my body hates me for it.
“You know what sticks out most to me about your retreat?” she says, patting her hair dry.
“What?”
“That you didn’t talk for forty-five days.”
I laugh and pass her some clean clothes. She tugs my black Prada T-shirt over her head. It hangs loose off one shoulder, the fabric swallowing her frame. I love seeing her in my clothes.
She moves through my space like she belongs here, her fingers brushing absentmindedly over the edge of my desk, pausing to glance at the row of books stacked haphazardly on the shelf. There’s an ease to it—like she’s been here a hundred times before. Like she could be here a hundred more.
“You don’t want to go next?” she asks, pointing at the shower.
“No.” The thought of washing her away makes my chest tight. I want to keep her on me, in me. The taste, the scent, all of it preserved. “I want to savor the moment. Including…” I press my tongue against my teeth, remembering. “Well. Some memories deserve to stay fresh.”
I catalog the water sliding down her neck in clear rivulets, the suggestion of her perfect breasts beneath the cotton, her unconscious humming. She exists in a state of unaware performance.
There’s something different about her. A softness that belies strength. She makes me want to be good, which is precisely why I shouldn’t be allowed near her. But I don’t listen to that voice.
We migrate to the kitchen, the worn wooden floor creaking softly under our steps. It’s old and lived-in—sturdy pine cabinets, a stained farmhouse sink, and an oven that takes twenty minutes to preheat, but it’s perfect for what I need today.
“Now, before we got sidetracked, I had something else planned,” I say, lifting a towel from a silver bowl. Her face brightens with recognition.
“Is this what I think it is?” She peers in, inhaling deeply. The rich scent of vanilla and yeast fills the air between us.
“Authentic Cafe Du Monde beignets. Had the ingredients shipped here specially.”
“Just for me?”
“I don’t see anyone else here.”
She looks around, a playful smile on her face. “I guess not.”
