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Right. Okay. Makes sense. Pulling away, I twist to stare into eerily calm eyes. “What does that entail, exactly?”
The corner of a swollen mouth lifts. “Gimme a second. I’m thinking about it.”
32
SUNDAY
Talking about it later.
That’s whathandling it like adultsmeans. Because there’s a houseful of people likely to notice our prolonged absence and we’re already pushing limits.
I can’t bring myself to rejoin everyone outside; not only is the sticky mess between my thighs uncomfortable, but I strongly suspect they’ll take one look at me and know. Cass must agree because he doesn't make a fuss when I head for the stairs instead of the backyard. He just kisses the top of my head, slaps me on the ass—it’s odd, how intimate I find that considering where his tongue just was—and disappears into the downstairs bathroom to hopefully wash his hands and possibly take care of the very prominent evidence of our nefarious activities.
God, I didn’t even offer to return the favor, did I? It didn’t even cross my mind. The last time I gave a blowjob, handjob, any job, my prefrontal cortex was yet to fully develop. I didn’t yet understand or experience that returning the favor is, in fact, customary—to my own detriment, no one else's—but I know better now. I’ve got half a mind to run back downstairs and offer, but no. I have officially had my fill of mortification for the evening. Met my quota for human interaction, too.
Bypassing the room I briefly, misguidedly, think of as mine because Cass’ parents are staying in there tonight, I tiptoe into the house’s main bedroom instead and lock myself in the ensuite to be alone with the waterfall shower and an extensive array of luxurious shower products.
Only when my skin is bright pink, pruning, sufficiently scrubbed clean of the last hour by a soap claiming to be ‘Sea & Dune’ scented—lemon, lily, cedarwood and seagrass, apparently—do I shut the water off and reluctantly wrap myself in the towel hanging from a hook on the back of the door. It’s warm and clean and it smells like Cass—like sea and freaking dune.
I briefly wonder if getting back in the shower and lathering myself with a differently-scented product would be considered slightly unhinged. I decide that yes, it would be. With a groan, I force myself out of my steamy, safe cocoon.
“You wanna watch something?”
I choke on a shriek, my hand flying to my heart. “Cass,” I hiss at the man who definitely was not lounging on the bed when I got in the shower. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“I knocked.” His shrug is lazy, his slouch casual. He does not look like a sexually frustrated man recently, unintentionally denied a quickie. Nor does he look at all put-out by that recent, unintentional denial. He’s changed into gray sweats and a white tank, a combination too distracting, too attractive, too good to be legal. He looks perfectly at home amongst a sea of throw cushions, and I suppose he should. It’s his bed. His bed, it strikes me suddenly, that I have to sleep in tonight.
I… did not think of that. Clearly. Where did I think I was gonna sleep? I wish I could say August’s bed—I repeat,in August’s bed, because he has a bed here, a room, aplace—but no, that didn’t actually occur to me. It appears my subconscious knew where I would be laying down my weary head tonight, and it was so okay with it, it didn’t feel the need to inform the rest of my consciousness.
It’s like Cass hears the thought as soon as I think it. “I already turned the alarm on. You’re trapped.”
“Everyone’s gone?” Jesus, how long was I in the shower for?
“I told them you were tired. Mom says goodnight.”
I’m an asshole. Everyone went to such trouble for me today, and I couldn’t even bid them goodbye.
“Stop thinking so loud, sunshine. You’re hurting my head.” Dark eyes flit to me briefly. “August is in his room.”
You can stay in there,I know he’s inadvertently telling me but all I hear?His room.
I should. I really, probably should. But I don’t want to. More than I don’t want to stay in here. Less than I don’t want to go home.
Adulting. That’s what we’re doing; handling things like adults, talking aboutitlater. Invading my son’s bedroom is neither of those things.
One night tucked in bed with Cass, Father Of My Child And First Man To Eat My Pussy, Morgan. I can handle that.
I think.
Fisting the knot of my towel, the only thing between me and nudity, I swallow. “Can I borrow something to sleep in?”
The subtlest hint of relief manifests in slumped shoulders and a quiet exhale of a held breath, and it’s both everything I need—he wants me here—and too much for me—he wants me here.
“Top left drawer,” Cass tells me, and I don’t hesitate to listen, wrenching it open and sighing happily when I find a sea of soft t-shirts and clean underwear. I help myself to one of each, my back to Cass as I—deep breath—drop my towel.
My skin prickles, either from the cool air or from eyes that may or may not be on me, who knows, but either way, I don’t hurry to cover up. After what just occurred, I figure being precious about nudity is pointless, and I’m reaching the stage where material rubbing against my nipples makes me wanna cry so if I can free the nip while I lather myself in ridiculously expensive whipped body butter, I’m gonna.
I’m about to scoop out a slightly advantageous dollop when a throat clears, loud and pointed enough that I glance over my shoulder, quirk a brow at the man gazing at me with pathetic, begging eyes. When he scoots to the edge of the bed and murmurs, “Wanna say hi,” before making grabby hands at my belly, I understand. After a moment of contemplation, I sigh. Oh, what the hell? Might as well call a free-for-all on touching because boundaries? What? I’m unfamiliar with those. We’ve left them all in our dust. I figure him rubbing lotion on my bump is tame, really.
