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I push my cart a little further down until I’m standing right in front of the rainfall body wash. Heat sears between my legs as I pluck the bottle from the shelf and drop it into my cart.
Maybe I’ll go to Cohen’s smelling like my new body wash. Maybe by the time I get back to my place I’ll feel a lot differently, and I’ll laugh at myself as I unpack the bottle onto my counter.
Maybe.
“Miss,” a deep voice calls, and I turn to find the man in the white and bloodied smock holding the white Kraft paper wrapped steaks. “Your steaks are ready.”
I head back to him, flames licking my cheeks, and a part of me wants to reach into the cart and drag a loaf of bread over the body wash, to hide it.
“Thank you,” I tell the man as he lowers the steaks into my hand over the glass counter. “Have a good day.”
“You too, sweetheart,” he says, returning to his display of jumbo prawn.
I pay for my groceries, trying hard to focus on the meal I’m planning to make with Cohen. But as I unload the brown bags into the passenger seat and hop into the driver’s seat, the blue bottle of body wash sits on top of my other toiletries, taunting me.
I drive a little faster than normal back to my apartment, squeezing my thighs together the entire time, dying to relieve the pressure settled low in my belly. The door to Cohen’s apartment is closed when I walk up with my bags, but I notice the large window adjacent to the door is bare. There used to be a dingy curtain covering it, the same as the one currently hanging at my place. I jump a little as his door swings open, his hair damp, gray t-shirt marked with dark spots.
“Hi,” I say, a little breathless at the sight of him again so soon. Each time I see him, I notice something new. There’s a small scar near his hairline, and when he smiles, a tiny dimple appears in his cheek.
“Hi,” he returns, walking to me with his arms out. He unloads my bags into his arms and waits patiently for me to unlock my door. Following me inside, he sets them on my kitchen counter, driving a muscular arm down into one of the bags, unloading.
His large hand cradles the bodywash, and his other hand holds a box of cereal, and my face grows hot and my knees shaky. “It’s okay…I can… you’re unpacking. I can unload these. Really,” I say, and I don’t have to explain it again or say more.
Cohen listens, lowering the two items to the counter. “Okay then,” he says, then smiles. He’s not angry that I don’t want his help, he’s not frustrated. He just listens, and does, then smiles.
It’s wild.
“I’m going to have a shower and take a nap. I had therapy so I always need to recharge after,” I tell him as I walk him out to the breezeway between our places. He stands in his doorway and I stand in mine.
“I do too. I sleep best on my therapy days.”
I like that he knows and understands what working through trauma is. And while I still don’t knowwhyhe goes to therapy, I find myself more attracted to him because of it. A man proactive about his mental health is a sexy man.
“I’ll text you when I wake up?” I offer, letting my eyes slide down his body. Aside from the sweat-marked t-shirt, he’s wearing black sweats, the same thick curve against his thigh. I swallow and blink up at him, unsure he realizes I just totally checked him out.
“Come over when you’re ready. I’ll be here.”
My eyes dart to the exposed window and back to him. He pulls a hand down his face, now veiled in blonde growth. “I want him to know I’m here,” he says, and my heart flexes beneath my ribs. He’s sacrificing his privacy for my safety, andnow it’s time to find the fucking rainfall.
I look back to him and smile. “I’ll be over later. I’m bringing the food.”
He nods and watches as I slowly close my door. A moment later I hear him faintly say, “The locks, Scarlett.”
I lock the door and turn around, chest heaving, cunt pulsing. I kick off my shoes, snatch the body wash from the counter, and head down the hall. The rest of the groceries can wait.
I can’t believe I’m doing this. Well, I can’t believe I’mgoingto do this. I’m surrounded by a full plate of beautiful humans every day at work, not to mention all the toys in the world.
But I don’t have those toys here. And I don’t want those people.
I want to feel something plunge deep inside me, I’m hungry for that sated, fullness that comes only with being fucked slow and deep.
I’m not ready for that with anyone, even Cohen.
But I can simulate it. He’s making me miss it, yearn for it even. And the fact that I can even think about doing this is a victory in itself. One I feel strongly is attributed to him and the slow, tender kindness he’s shown me.
I wash the bottle off in the bathroom sink, watching suds swirl around the basin. Leaving a trail of my crop top and jeans, I slip into bed and wiggle out of my panties. Reaching down with my empty hand, I spread myself, finding heat and moisture spilling from between my thighs.
Moans long trapped in my chest slip free, and it’s never felt so good to feel myself wet and starved. Spreading my legs wide, I look down at my naked body, ends of my blonde hair curling beneath my full breasts, nipples in stiff peaks. My belly trembles with nerves as my breathing grows shallow. Notching the bottle at my entrance, I slowly push inside, and my knees pull to my chest in reaction.
