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A cold sweat prickles through me. What do I do? Even as I wonder, I’m pulling the coffee table over right beside the couch. I sit on its edge. Then I take a deep breath, grab Barrett’s elbows gently, and pull his hands down from his face.
His eyes are clamped shut. His face is tight. His posture is coiled, almost cowed.
“Barrett…hey…”
I fold his hands in mine. They’re damp and curled, half-fisted and limp at the same time. I lean over closer to him, squeezing gently as I whisper, “Hey—it’s Gwenna. You’re at my house, remember?” I stroke his knuckles. “We were watching Finding Nemo and you fell asleep.”
His eyelids flutter and he squints, recoiling like I’ve got a flashlight in his face. He drops his head back down. I feel a shudder rip through him. “I know,” he groans.
I release one of his hands and tap his bicep. “Can you look at me?”
He doesn’t lift his head. His shoulders rise, then fall. I hear him suck a deep breath down into his lungs—his shoulders curl a little on the exhale—and then gasp for another one. I can see the cords of tension in his neck. The tightness of his shoulders. He’s struggling to breathe. I can’t just watch and do nothing.
I move to the couch beside him, hesitating just a second while I find an angle that will work. Then I lean in close and wrap my arms around his wide chest. I press my cheek against the hard swell of his bicep and meld my body to his side.
I feel his torso stiffen. Feel his breathing hitch. A heartbeat later, one big arm encircles me. He crushes me against him, holding on so tight it hurts my ribs.
His mouth is on my hair. I feel him inhale, tickling my scalp. The breath shudders back out. For a heartbeat, I can feel his body lose some of its tension. Then he lets me go and leans away.
“Gwenna?” His eyes stretch wide. His lips part.
“Hey.” I stroke his cheek.
His eyes drift shut. There’s this little rumble low down in his throat. I think it sounds like someone easing.
Then his eyes open again. They search mine—frantic and confused. He blinks a few times. Stands up. He turns a slow circle.
“I’ve got to go,” he says, and stumbles toward the door. He looks back at me for a long second. Then he turns and slips into the night.
FIFTEEN
Barrett
The steady pitter-patter, the blanket of steam, the blur of streaming water all around me: these things quiet my mind some. It feels good until my eyelids sag shut and my mind slips into darkness. My body jerks as if I’m falling, and I come to slumped against the shower wall, shaky and nauseated from not sleeping.
I keep hearing voices speaking in Pashto. That time the Taliban had us hogtied in that cabin in the Hindu Kush, keeping us awake for six days straight before we shot our way out…
I reach down into a soap dish for my phone. I turn it on, then turn the volume off and turn the camera view on. As it happens, she is in her bedroom. I don’t know what time it is. She’s in a robe. Is it morning or evening? Details blur together. A black window… a bright window… the moving trees. All the endless hours watching from the chair in the bedroom.
She’s wearing her robe. Is she getting ready to leave the house or settling in for the night?
I lean my back against the shower’s side and notice her mouth moving and her head tipped back. The way her mouth stretches… She’s singing. I sit up, feeling interested in something for the first time in days.
I turn the volume up slowly, until her rich voice echoes through the shower, drifting in the steam above me. Fuck, her voice is powerful. It’s low and sultry. I feel it in the shaking of my hands, in the staccato of my pulse. It settles in the back of my throat, blurring my eyes. I close them, but I can’t leave them shut for long. I want to watch her move and sing.
I can’t believe it’s really her. That’s Gwenna.
A bolt of pride flares through me as I watch her flip her hair over her shoulder and dance around her room. I watch and listen—a combination I previously did not allow myself because it felt too invasive.
As she sings, she drops the robe. My throat tightens as she turns slightly toward the camera, showing me one milky-white breast. She turns a little more and I see both of them: small, soft globes spilling out of a lacy bra.
Lust surges through me. My dick twitches to life.
She leans over her dresser, toward a mirror hanging over it. I watch the curve of her back, the roundness of her ass.
My hand goes around my dick automatically. I groan and squeeze just under the head. I start to stroke it as she moves about her room, shimmying into and out of various shirts. I watch her ass as she turns circles. I fanaticize about grabbing her h
ips, stroking my cock until my balls tighten and I think I might come, just watching her.
