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I’ve never really had the time or the presence of mind to admire Nick’s body. The closest I’ve come the night he came home, covered with blood. Which was obviously distracting. Not to mention horrifying.
There’s no trace of crimson now. Just an endless stretch of smooth skin and defined muscle.
Looking at him is like gorging on a decadent dessert after eating a full meal. You know you should resist, but you want to indulge. I soap his hair, his arms, his shoulders. Move down the center of his chest, over his abs. Trace the V and the thin trail of dark hair, both of which point straight at his cock.
I take my time, not leaving any inch untouched, until I fist his penis. It hardens under my touch. Nick hisses as I move my hand, the silky soap making my motions slippery.
“Ignore it,” he tells me as his dick grows stiff and engorged again.
I smirk and stroke him faster.
Nick’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. His head tilts back to touch the tile wall, but his eyes stay on me. I hold eye contact, dipping down to massage his balls before returning to his erection. His breathing picks up as he swells in my hand.
He reaches out and strokes my jaw with his thumb. Then, his fingers thread into my hair, gently tugging at the wet strands. Our faces are closer together now, mine tipped up and his angled down.
We don’t kiss. He doesn’t say anything. I don’t stop stroking him until his release spills into my hand and washes away.
Neither of us moves away.
It’s intimate.
It feels like he’s seeing me,reallyseeing me, beneath skin and muscle and bone and blood and what physically makes up a human being. Past the defenses I raise with everyone else.
Truthfully, I don’t really have a safe place. I act strong and brave and organized and independent.
And I’m some of those things sometimes.
I’ll admit to being tired or too busy. I don’t try to make it seem like my life is picture-perfect.
But I’ve never told anyone I often wake up in the middle of the night, panicked I might have forgotten to pay a bill or lock the door. That I bring flowers to the cemetery where my mother is buried every year on her birthday—July 7. That most mornings, Leo is the reason I get out of bed. That I never left Philadelphia, not because I love the city, but because I hoped there would be one day when Nick reappeared. That my greatest fear is leaving Leo alone.
It’s incredibly ironic—I’m only just comprehendinghowironic—that I feel safest with Nick, who is undoubtedly the most dangerous person I know.
“You still wear it.” He’s looking at my rose necklace.
I nod. “It’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid.” His finger traces the thin chain and touches the small charm.
“It couldn’t have cost her much. It’ll probably break soon. It’s just…hard to let go of things you know you should, I guess.”
“Yeah, it is.” His voice is soft. Knowing.
“She could have chosen something a little more interesting. Like a falcon or a moon.”
Nick half smiles in response to my attempt at levity.
“Roses are cliché. Common. Boring. Exactly what she thought of me, I guess.”
“They’re also bold,” he says. “Resilient. Fierce. Most flowers don’t have thorns.”
I exhale. “It’s easier for me to see the ugly than the pretty. When it comes to my mom. When it comes to most things maybe.”
“It can be prettyandugly, Lyla. Anything can be. Even regrets.”
We share a bittersweet smile before he shuts off the water.
Nick turns to step out of the shower, but I grab his wrist before he can move away. I graze my thumb against the pulse point, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat.
