Page 28 of Silver Brewer

“That feels nice,” she purrs like she did last night. My dick knocks at my zipper, unfurled to almost full mast. I continue to rinse her hair, doing the best I can to remove all the soap residue. This wasn’t a spa-like treatment, but I’m hoping it might help make her more comfortable.

I get one more night, then we talk. There won’t be much to say after another night, though I’ll admit I’m happy to have another chance with her. Will one more night be enough? my heart murmurs, but I dismiss my answer.

When I think I have her hair clear of shampoo, I press at her shoulder blade, helping her sit upright again.

“Better?”

“Much. Thank you. That was sweet of you.” She begins to comb her fingers through her hair, separating the wet clumps and spreading the long length.

“Have a comb?”

Her brows pinch in question, but she answers, “In my bag.”

“Be right back.” I can’t handle rummaging through her underthings again, especially now that I know what they look like on her body. When I was searching for her tablet earlier, I brushed against her collection of thongs and was instantly hard—again. The thin lacy material is so unlike anything Clara wore. Skimpy. Sexy. Spontaneous. Seeing Letty in this barely-there fabric does something to me and not just my dick. It hints at adventure in the bedroom. I curse myself for comparing Clara and Letty. They are obviously unique women, yet the opposition between them is what draws me to Letty. I want the adventure. I want different.

I return to Letty’s side and tug another stump up behind her, seating myself on it. My thighs straddle beside hers, and I’m careful not to touch her with my legs although I want nothing more than to pull her back to my chest. Instead, I place the comb in her hair and gently stroke downward, righting the tangles as I go.

“My God, you’re hired. Come to Chicago and you can do my hair before the wedding.”

I chuckle. “Right, the wedding. Where’s it at?” I don’t mean to bring up a sore subject, and I’m not good at small talk, but I am curious. I’ll do anything to start her chattering at me again.

“The Drake, of course. Overlooking Lake Michigan.” I flip open a mental notepad and pencil down the information.

“Sounds fancy.”

“Only the best for my sister,” she mocks.

“You’ll be the most beautiful woman there, I’m sure.”

She turns to glance at me over her shoulder. “See, charming.” Then her brows pinch, and she looks toward the dying embers in the fire pit. “I don’t want to be more beautiful than Dayna, though. I want to go unnoticed on that day and forget the reminders it could have been me. I want it over. Time to move on.”

Time to move on. The words ring through my head like a gong. For years, I’ve pondered what moving on means. I restored my home. I dived into work. I supported my brother with his pub. But none of it has been enough.

I finish combing through her hair and scoot closer to her, finally giving in to the tremor in my thighs that want to rest against hers. I risk an arm around her middle and press my forehead to the damp nape of her neck.

“I’m sorry if there was a misunderstanding about last night.”

Her breath hitches.

“If I was too rough. If I said something or didn’t say something I should have. I apologize.” I’m not good at this, I want to tell her. I don’t know what I’m doing, feeling, wanting, I want to say.

“You weren’t rough,” she replies, her voice dropping. “I liked it.”

She’s quiet again, and I lift my face to press a kiss to her wet hair, lingering there as I speak. “I don’t know how to be with…people.” With you. How do I be with you?

“With women?” she suggests, curiosity lacing her question.

“With anyone, I guess.”

“Tell me,” she whispers, and my one-arm hold on her tightens, leaning my chest against her back.

“I was in the military forever. When I came home on a medical discharge, I didn’t know where I belonged. Clara had a routine, and I didn’t know where I fit. My dad offered me the brewery, but I didn’t know anything about running a business. It was like a crash course in economics and marketing. It’s my family. It’s my name. But it hasn’t been enough.” I’m lonely, I want to tell her. I’ve been lonely for a long, long time, I think, but I don’t admit this to her. I just hold her tighter, allowing my face to rest in her wet locks. With a whisper, I say, “My life is so quiet.”

“And I talk too much.” She chuckles.

“I don’t think anything you do would be too much,” I mutter. You’re perfect. When she doesn’t respond, I joke, “Your chirping is growing on me.” And so is your hum. Then she chuckles. Your laughter, too, I add to my growing list of noises. Her body, her nearness, her scent. All of her. I don’t want to let her go.

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