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Despite telling her I don’t need or want her pity, I don’t mind her care. Scratch that. I love her care. She does it so well—efficiently putting all her focus into my comfort in that no-nonsense way of hers that leaves no room for self-pity or doubt. And it works. I relax into her hands, letting her do as she pleases.
I had no idea how much I needed to be touched without any endgame, to be handled like I matter beyond sex. I’m not fooling myself into believing anything has changed in our arrangement. But it’s enough to have me thinking things I shouldn’t.
Weirdly, confessing to her doesn’t make me feel worse. It releases something within me, and with it, I feel lighter, as though maybe the world isn’t about to end, that I can face anything as long as she is there to help me pick up the pieces. Part of me wants to run from that, run far and fast. But I don’t. Because I’m not a fool. Being here with her as she fusses over me is worth it.
I hold still as she rests a hand on my shoulder and leans in to peer at my face.
“You want me to shave it all off?” she asks. “Or give you a nice trim?”
Up close, I’m struck by her beauty. Brenna’s features aren’t conventionally pretty. Her beauty is austere, striking. It is the difference between Vivaldi’s “Spring” and “Winter.” The lilting notes of “Spring” lull you into peaceful compliance, whereas the vibrant tempo of “Winter” stirs the blood and reminds you what it means to be alive. That is Brenna: thrilling, lively, vital.
Her nose is blunt, her face a narrow oval of smooth alabaster skin that glows with good health. Her lips aren’t overly full but are well-shaped and candy pink. But it’s her eyes, the color of fine whisky in firelight, framed by thick auburn lashes that take my breath away. Wide and clear, and I swear they see further into me than anyone else has. Or maybe it’s that I look at them and all rational thought fades. I could spend a lifetime staring into her eyes and it wouldn’t be enough.
Now they’re crinkling at the corners, the space between them furrowed in concern.
“Rye?”
Right. I’m staring. I clear my throat. “What do you prefer?”
God, she smells good. Fresh from the bath, spicy-sweet like some exotic flower laced with fruit. Stupid, I know. But I can’t describe it any other way. It’s just fucking good. A drug. I draw in more of her scent as she bites the inside of her lower lip and contemplates.
“You want me to pick?”
“Well, yeah.” My mouth quirks. “I’m the one going down on you on the regular, so…”
I freaking love the way she blushes berry red. It rushes up from her neck and washes over her entire face. I know she hates it, so I bite back a smile.
“You just had to get that out there, didn’t you?” she says, lips twitching.
I also know she likes to be teased.
“Honey, if you’d let me, I’d create a full internet ad campaign about that.”
Brenna’s deft fingers run through my beard, sending shivers along my spine. She huffs out a laugh. “How would it go? ‘My name is Rye Peterson, and I’m intimately familiar with Brenna James’s lady parts’?”
“Lady parts?” I scoff. “More like, ‘And I’m the lucky bastard who gets to lick, suck, and fuck Brenna James’s delicious peachy pussy.’”
She’s the color of a raspberry now. “Oh my God.” Another husky laugh. “You’re terrible.”
Waggling my brows, I grin. “You love it.”
“You’re also deluded.”
“Not about this. I bet you’re wet right now.”
“Not even a little.” A spark of humor lights her eyes, daring me to prove her wrong.
“Liar. You’re so wet. You need me to make it better.”
“Rye.” She laughs.
“Come on, let me see.” I reach for her, but the wires of the heating mitts won’t let me get far, and she gently bats my hands back down to my lap.
“Behave. I have work to do.”
I keep my hands where they are, but it doesn’t stop me from nuzzling her neck. She snickers, but then tilts her head ever so slightly to give me more access. I get a lick in before she dodges away, and with a reproving look, opens one of her makeup table drawers.
“Since you’ve given me a choice, we’re keeping the beard.” Over her shoulder, she shoots me a saucy look. “I like how it feels on my skin when you lick and suck my pussy.”
I groan long and deep and reach for her again.
Laughing, she evades me. “None of that.”
“Evil, Bren. Evil.”
She pulls out a pink electric shaver. It looks a lot like a beard trimmer. But, you know, pink.
“Why do you have that?” I ask idly, as she selects an attachment.
