Page 70 of Merging Wright

I inhale the sleepy scent of man and forest on Mach’s skin, breathing deep his nearness and willing away thoughts of a flat-faced fish attacking me underwater. I’m afraid to close my eyes again, so I focus on the darkness and continue to outline his chest. My fingertips stretch toward his collarbone. Touching him here is strangely reassuring.

Our fight was so big.

“Nothing’s going to happen to you, baby.” He tugs me tighter to him.

I continue to explore him by dragging my left hand over his shoulder while my right flattens over his heart. The beats within his chest resonate through his skin and seep into my palm.

Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.

Acushla, as his mother says. A pulse.

Mach rocks his pelvis forward, the slightest shift, and we touch. My lower belly brushes the stiffening length in his boxer briefs. He’s so long, so hard, so ready, but my mind can’t release the dream.

What does Mach dream about? Who does he see in his head? Does he believe I’m a means to an end?

I lower my hand and slip it under Mach’s arm, reaching around his back to press my palm against the curve of his shoulder blade. My fingers dribble down his spine and rest above the band of his boxers. He’s so firm, so strong.

His lips come to my forehead, and he mutters against me. “Go back to sleep, baby.”

I’m afraid to sleep but I nod again. Closing my eyes, the fish swimming in my head mocks me with that flat grin of his.

This man will never be yours.

But with Mach’s heart beating beneath my hand and our bodies pressing together in dangerous ways, I fall into a restless slumber, dreaming he could be mine one day.

+ + +

In the morning, I wake with another start as Mach nearly rips himself from my grasp. He’s quick to twist and sit upright, then stand. He disappears into the bathroom like a streak of lightning. The shower turns on, and I close my eyes. I drift back to sleep, dozing as I’d done most of the night.

Our argument from last night lingers. The fish dream still haunts me. My body is wound from Mach’s closeness.

I need sexual relief.

Once Mach is finished and leaves the room, I rise from the bed. I’m desperate for the shower as a place to hide and relieve the tension within me. The tub would be a good place to relax, but the smallness doesn’t allow for a full-body soak. The interesting thing about the bathroom is Camilla keeps us stocked with fresh towels every day. Decoratively rolled and set on an open shelf above the toilet, the service and setup remind me of a hotel. But that’s not on my mind as I step into the tub and let the warm water pepper my back.

Using a washcloth, I stroke over my skin, my clit pulsing with anticipation, like the sensitive nub knows what’s coming. I lightly scrub around my breasts and glide down my belly until curling my hand between my legs. The softness of the terrycloth is the right texture to tease my clit and have me rocking my hips almost instantly. In my head, Mach kneels before me, mouth open and vigorously lapping. I reach for the wall, pressing the curtain that surrounds the tub in a three-sixty fashion against the plaster.

Oh yes. Right there, Mach. Don’t stop.

My hips thrust. My fingers rub. My mouth falls open in a silent cry.

And the shower curtain rips open.

The washcloth drops to the tub base with a wet slap. There is no disguising the heaving of my chest. My heart hammers within. I was so close. And I’m shamefully embarrassed.

“What were you doing?” The gruffness of Mach’s voice isn’t angry or accusatory. His chest rises and lowers almost as rapidly as mine.

I can’t answer him. My eyes briefly meet his and glance away. I should scream at him to get out. I should reach for the curtain and tug it between us. I don’t do either. Instead, I stand still as Mach’s eyes scan my body from the tip of my nose to the hair at the apex of my legs.

“Finish,” he demands, snapping his gaze back to my eyes. He releases the curtain and steps back.

“Mach, I—”

He grips the back of his collar and tugs his T-shirt over his head. Before me is the magnificent display of his bright arms and smooth skin with a sprinkle of chest hair over his pecs.

Mach-nificent.

“Let me watch.” He pops the button on his jeans and lowers the zipper. All I can do is watch him. His hand disappears into his boxers, and he adjusts himself.