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After a much more accommodating shower, we settled on the window seat bench to dry off. But then I had to have him again; somewhere out there, some lucky person got a nice view of Rye’s sleekly muscled back. And probably my tits. I’m okay with that. Sacrifices must be made in the pursuit of pleasure.
Now relaxed and on a mission to personally investigate all my products, he opens a jar of face mask and wrinkles his nose. “It’s purple.”
“I noticed.”
“What does it do?” A little frown pulls between his brows as he peers at the jar’s directions.
I put down my brush and sit on his lap. It’s a simple thing to do, but it feels significant, like I’m making a claim. I take the jar from his hand. “In theory, it’s supposed to smooth out wrinkles and rejuvenate tired skin.”
Rye’s arm wraps around my waist, tugging me more firmly against him. “You don’t need that. Your skin is perfect.” He punctuates the statement with a kiss on my cheek.
Pleasure hums through me. “Maybe that’s because I have a shit-ton of products.”
A huff of warm breath tickles my neck as he explores the area. “Doubtful. You’d be perfect without it.”
I’ve been complimented before, by lovers, potential lovers, idle passersby. I’ve never been fully comfortable with it. The insecure part of me forged by childhood disappointments stubbornly holds on and insists people are only pandering. But it’s different coming from Rye. His quiet conviction of my so-called perfection skitters and bumps along my skin, trying to find its way into my heart.
I brush a strand of damp hair off his brow. He needs a haircut. And a shave. Rye’s eyes meet mine, and I notice the tired lines around his.
“You should try the mask. It might do you some good.”
A wry smile tips his mouth. “Are you saying I look like shit?”
“Not like shit. But tired.” More than that, in truth.
When I’m with him, he’s either hot and urgent with lust or wearing the contentment of a big cat sunning on a rock. I swear, there are times I can all but hear him purr, a deeply satisfied rumble in that wide chest. But there’s something under the surface that I can’t put my finger on. Something off and pained. I don’t want to push, but I can’t refrain from tracing one of the lines of fatigue that run across his forehead.
In silence, he watches me, not exactly wary but guarded. The moment pulls thick and tight, and then he breaks it with an easy smile. “So put some on me. Rejuvenate my ravaged skin.”
He’s evading. But then, so am I. Too much emotion isn’t smart. I cannot fall for Rye. Not fully. I won’t survive it. I’ll tumble around with him for a while, but I have to stay safely on the ledge.
“Let the healing begin.” I grab my mask applicator and smear a big dollop of purple cream across his forehead.
He closes his eyes as though I might somehow get the thick paste in them. I fight the urge to kiss the tip of his nose. I seriously need to get a grip. Working faster, I concentrate on the task at hand.
“There!” I sit back and inspect my work. Rye has a nice coat of purple covering his forehead, nose, and cheekbones. “Now just relax.”
He frowns, creating purple valleys over his forehead. “It’s not going to melt my face off, is it?”
Rolling my eyes, I toss the applicator brush in the sink. “Yes, that’s exactly what it does. When we skincare lovers get tired of having faces, we reach for this stuff. Instant Wicked Witch of the West meets water.”
His lips purse at my sarcasm.
“And stop making faces.” I set the timer. “You’re cracking the mask.”
He exhales in a long-suffering sigh, but I know he’s enjoying his “spa” time. His body is loose and relaxed, his hand idly gliding up and down my waist. Humor gleams in his eyes, made bright blue by the surrounding lavender cream.
“You have a bit on your beard.” Leaning forward, I rub my thumb over the spot. He catches me with his teeth, gently biting down before letting it go.
“Animal.” Laughing, I snatch my hand away.
The mask cracks like a drying riverbed as he grins. With an exaggerated growl, he grasps the back of my neck and hauls me forward. His kiss is greedy and messy.
Squeaking, I push off him. But I’m laughing. I can’t help it. Playing with Rye is the kind of fun I rarely allow myself.
He chuckles, totally unrepentant, eyes alight. Shaking my head, I towel off the smudges of purple he left on my face and then tidy his mask. He grins the entire time, his hands roving as though he can’t stop himself from touching me. I’m not even sure he’s aware he’s doing it.
