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He offers me the glass, and I accept it, take a sip, and then pass it back to him. He sips, too, and it seems this is the week for sharing wine with the Winchester siblings.
“Close your eyes,” he urges.
“Don’t have to tell me twice.” I lean my head back and close my eyes while Apollo begins to rub the arch of my right foot. The perfect pressure of his thumb rubbing along the arch of my foot sends me straight into absolute and utter happiness. “You have good hands.”
“They’re kind of beat up. Comes with the job.”
“Mine too. I have man hands with all the callouses and scars.”
“You don’t have man hands.” His voice is soft and soothing, and his thumb never stops doing delicious things to that foot. “You have working hands, and there’s nothing at all wrong with that.”
I don’t reply, and he doesn’t seem to need one. I’m so relaxed. Every muscle has just let go, and it feels as if I’m weightless, completely stress free and happy.
I’mhappy.
I’m not typically unhappy, but I don’t know if it’s ever actually occurred to me before that I’m satisfied the way it does right now.
I guess excellent sex and a killer bathtub will do that to a girl.
Apollo switches feet, and I let out a soft sigh.
“You can stop doing that in about three hundred years.”
“Deal.”
Cracking my eye open again, I take him in. He’s much taller than me, so he’s farther out of the water, and I can see that he’s covered in goose bumps.
“You’re cold.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re cold,” I repeat and scoot back a bit. “Dip down farther. There’s plenty of room.”
He complies and then sighs. “Yeah, that’s better.”
“Silly man, you don’t have to be cold just to make me comfortable.”
“Your comfort is the only thing that matters to me.”
Not sure what to say to that, I close my eyes again and enjoy the feel of his fingers rubbing their way up to my ankles.
“Have you always been so…sweet?” I ask, unable to stop myself. “Or is this just for tonight because of the sex thing?”
“You decided a long time ago that I was the villain in your story, and that wasn’t true.”
“It was kind of true.” I sigh with happiness as his hands reach my calf. “I mean, youweremean to me.”
“Once,” he clarifies. “And you’re so damn stubborn that you held a grudge about it for twenty years instead of just talking to me about it.”
“I’m not a good talker.”
“Clearly,” he says. “Do you want me to call the guys I was with that day and tell them that I do, in fact, like your hair and they can go suck it?”
“Would you do that?”
He’s quiet for a moment, so I open my eyes and find him grinning at me.
“If I knew who they were, then hell yes, I would do that, but I don’t remember.”
