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“Foot rubs?” I gather my hair over my shoulder and smile back at him.
“Yeah.”
I rub his heel and he moans. He flexes his calf and ankle, and I squeeze the outside wall of his sole. He groans roughly. “Fuck… You’re good.”
“That’s what I’m told.” I squeeze his heel once more before I lower it back into the suds. “Remind me and I’ll do that with some lotion later.”
He chuckles, and I shoot him a look. “I know what you’re thinking, mister.”
“I don’t think you do,” he murmurs.
“That’s what she said?”
He laughs again, all dimpled and fuck hot with that rough-looking beard.
“I know how you penis-havers are.” I turn around and turn the water off, then hug myself, feeling nervous under the sparkly veneer of what is indeed my shadow personality: Regular Gwenna gone insane/hyper/confident. It happens when I’m stressed, even if the stress is good. Of course, if the stress is bad, it’s more like insane, detail-obsessed drill sergeant.
My body freezes as I feel Barrett’s hand stroke down my spine.
“Penis-havers.” He chuckles. His arm wraps around my lower belly, and he pulls me back against his chest. I can feel his long erection pressed against my ass. I wait for him to rub against me, but he just strokes my shoulder and lifts his chin a little, so my head can rest in the softness between his throat and shoulder. I can feel his warm chest rise and fall below me.
Nestled between his powerful thighs, I can’t help the throb between my own. His body calls to mine, and I can tell the inverse is true, too: After a minute, I can feel his dick twitch just above my ass.
I unfold my lower body from the cross-legged position and draw my knees up toward my chest, pressing my thighs together in a futile attempt to satiate my lust. Barrett makes a soft sound: could be an exhalation, could be the ghost of a groan.
Heat tingles through me, starting at my chest and sweeping downward. I take a careful breath and slip into a strange state where I’m turned on, but I’m also strangely satisfied just lying back against him.
I wrap my hands around his forearm. His hand splays out over my abs. How intimate we are, for almost strangers.
My head is nestled against his pec. I snuggle in a little more and when his arms tighten around me, I whisper, “Do you like being here with me?”
He cups his hand around my hip, tracing a gentle circle with one fingertip. “It may be the only thing I like,” he answers finally.
A flock of butterflies swoops through my stomach. He’s been so reserved, so distant since we met, every little thing he says now makes me want to sing.
I run my hand over the back of his left thigh, smoothing over a deep scar I saw after we had sex downstairs.
His chest expands beneath me. He lets out a long, silent breath. “I’ve lost a ton of muscle mass since getting…home.”
He raises his right knee, cradling my lower body with his own. I feel myself relax against him.
The word “home” seems laced with frustration—maybe even bitterness—and I want to ask. I even feel like he might want me to. But I’m not sure what to say. I don’t want to say the wrong thing. Finally I relax more and look up at the ceiling, “Has it been like you thought it would be? Being discharged?”
His left thigh tightens underneath my stroking fingers.
“I didn’t,” he says roughly. “Think about it.” I see his calf flex underneath the waning bubbles.
“How long were you in?” I ask softly.
“Eleven years.” I glance back at him, finding his eyes shut.
“Does that mean you might be…twenty-nine?”
He lifts an eyelid and smiles, looking oddly miserable. “Old.”
“No.” I turn around toward him and drag my hand over his upper abs. His abs twitch, and he sits up slightly, looking at my face curiously, silently, as he piles my hair up on my head with his damp hands, and, with his hands spreading along my ribcage, leans me back against his chest. He folds an arm around me.
“I guess it probably feels like it,” I say softly.
