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His thumbs hook on each side of the elastic waistband and he pushes them down, his erection springing free. "Where do you want me?"
"Where do you want to be?"
"Scoot up," he demands, still not smiling. Someone is in a mysterious broody mood tonight. I lift off my pillow and scoot toward the center of the tub, letting him step in behind me. He sits at my rear, positioning his legs along the walls of the tub at each side of me, his massive body overpowering my small one.
"You okay?" I ask, as he grips my hips and pulls me against his body, the back of my head falling against his broad chest when his arms cross over my front into a bear hug, his hands gripping my breasts. "You seem a little . . . off from earlier."
He runs his lips along the seam of my neck, the hair from his beard creating a layer of chill bumps across my skin. "I got in a fight with Joel. I never fight with Joel," is all he says, squeezing me tighter. My chest constricts, feeling a little guilty.
I take a large gulp of my wine and set the glass down, turning in his arms to stand on my knees before him. He lets me, looking up at me with heat in his stare as his hands settle on the outside of my thighs, slowing rubbing up my body, gliding along my slick skin. "Over what?"
He pulls me forward, forcing me to straddle him, his erection resting against my center. "You. Karleigh. Shit that's been brewing for a while and finally came to a head."
My body sinks down on him. Had I known last night was going to turn out like this I would have said no. I'm not even sure what the real issue is. I skip the first question in my head, going straight for the second. "Who is Karleigh?"
He circles his thumbs on my hips, staring at my belly sitting above the surface of the water. "His dead girlfriend."
My heart begins to speed. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"Not really. I just want to be here with you."
"Okay."
Thank God. I'm a shitty talker. Don't ask me why, but I always have been. Words of meaning fail me unless they're on paper or a computer screen. I tend to keep to myself where deep conversation is concerned, except with Saxton. He's always been the only one I can really talk to openly. I guess because we grew up together. I'm not good at sympathy and empathy. It's like I missed out on that gene in conception. I never meet a stranger. Partying, having a good time, social events and meet and greets I do well, but add in emotion and I get hung up, every time. I can listen, but advice is something I'm shit at.
Hell, when Saxton finally left Salem my thought was: good riddance, he's better off without her. He'll be so much happier. It was a happy day for me, and obviously only me. Yet again I had the wrong fucking emotion. Who wants to compete with others over one person? There are plenty of fish in the sea to not have to. I never understood someone getting all wrapped up over another human being when so many more are readily available for use. Even when I was interested in a male counterpart in my younger years, once I was done I never looked back. Second chances were not a thing I believed in. There was only one time in my life I had any type of heartbreak, and even then, I decided quick it wasn't worth it, and I've never been the same since.
It wasn't until Saxton went off the deep end from heartbreak and threw himself into a world of porn that I realized I'm different from most. It was something I couldn't wrap my head around, so I stayed out of it, waiting and hoping that someday he'd pull himself out of his self-induced heartache and move on. Because for me, no one is worth that kind of breakdown and time, wasting years of your life for someone that doesn't even matter.
My hand rubs along his beard, still in thought, and enjoying the warm water even though I'm not submerged like I was. The distraction of him keeps me from focusing on the fact that a chill runs up my spine as the air kisses my wet skin. I like the feel of his beard against my skin. It's an unexplainable high, feeling it brush across any part of my body. A beautiful tickle you never want to stop. It's coarse, yet still oddly soft. I've dreamt of it a few times, and oddly, every time the dream is the same. I wake up, sleep marring my face, and when I look down he's pressed firmly between my legs, his beard brushing along my lips as his tongue wreaks havoc on my tiny little button that detonates and creates a magnificent explosion when pressed. And every time it shatters my consciousness, he's looking up at me from beneath his long dark lashes, his hair hanging low, and as he kisses his way up my belly, the words 'I love you' expel from his lips. Before anything is ever returned, I wake up—for real—saturated in sweat. I've yet to figure out if it's a nightmare from my worst fear or something I long for deep down but won't let myself have.
"Ty?" My body stills at the nickname only one other person has ever called me—my grandfather. He hated my name, and was much more outspoken than his son, my dad. He voiced on many occasions that he tried to convince my dad to make my mom change it before I was born. He believed in the classic names, the strong names with meaning, and anything modern or different was meant for 'those famous people that don't know any better.' He was as old school as they came, spawn from several generations of farmers. To him, his life always had meaning. He was a contributor to meeting needs in the world. But Dad loved Mom too much to go against something she deeply wanted, so it stuck, but Papa said he'd just call me Ty, and did until the day he died. I suppose to him names weren't gender specific, because I always thought Ty was a boy name.
"Ty," he says again. I was so deep in thought I didn't even notice him changing positions. He's sitting up, his forehead pressed between my breasts and his large hands positioned over my ass, holding my middle against his dick. I can feel him breathing against my chest. I'm not sure what to make of him calling me that. Do I correct him? Do I let it go? Do I want him to call me that? It's an intimate gesture—giving someone a nickname—yet the response from my mouth shocks me to Hell and back.
"What Bry?"
His tone never changes. He's still monotone, his forehead pressed against me as if he has no intention of moving. "Why is the water blue?"
I lay my cheek on top of his damp hair from the steam circulating the darkened room. "A bath bomb."
"Oh, because that clears up any confusion I may have had," he says sarcastically.
"It's a fizzing ball that releases ingredients into the water, asshole," I say, a laugh slipping as I explain. "Each one is made up of a different compound: different smells, different colors, different reasons for use. Some are aromatherapy for specific things like stress, energy, etc. Common names would be tranquility, harmony, some themed, some birthstones. Each one has a ring in the middle just like all of their products. My candle had one too. It's become my little guilty pleasure I guess. I had one not too long ago that left glitter coating the bottom of my tub. I stayed in the sparkling water until it was freezing. I didn't even want to clean it at first, because it was so pretty. Like a galaxy in my bathroom."
"Oh," he says. "I don't take baths. It's like soaking in your own filth."
"It's a girl thing I guess. You're in here now."
"Only because you're in here. I'll soak in your filth."
I laugh, gripping his hair and prying his face from by boobs. His heavy eyes stare into mine, his lips barely parted. "Most girls would find that offensive."
"You're not like most girls." He exhales in a way that makes him seem exhausted. "You've fucked my head up, Ty. Fucked my head up real good."
"How so? I'm just a crazy bitch that likes a good time. You'll be rid of me in a few days and then it'll be like I never existed. Your life will go back to the way it was and the crazy girl will be long gone, thousands of miles away."
No longer than a second after the words spilled from my lips he hugs me tighter, his forehead going back to the place it was, as if it's his sanctuary. "No, I don't think that's how it's going to go at all. My plane leaves early Tuesday morning, as in really the middle of Monday night when most are sleeping. I have a few more full days with you. I think . . . I think I'm going to miss your crazy, controlling ass. And I'm pretty sure you'll never be gone. As a matter of fact, I think you're fucking stuck up there, in my head. Everyone sees it but me, and now, maybe I'm starting to see it too."
