“Maybe a little more violent.”
Rhys’s eyebrow goes up. “Like they actually come to blows over the music selection in their covered wagon?”
I snort.
He puts it on, and we watch, curled up together on the couch.
“How long is the show?” he asks after the pilot. “Like, how many seasons?”
“Eight. We won’t get all the way through it before you have to leave.”
We’re both quiet. I can hear the hum of the guesthouse’s electric heat and the purr of the minifridge under the kitchen counter. I think I might be able to hear his heartbeat, too.
“We might not,” he agrees finally, and I’m grateful he isn’t trying to paper over that reality and also that he isn’t offering solutions that will never work, like dating long distance. “But we could watch another one now.”
It’s not until he offers that consolation prize that I realize how much I want him to offer more. The whole season, the whole show, all the shows we could stream, me sitting next to him on the couch, head against his chest, feeling his heart beat against my cheek.
But I don’t ask for it. He’s not for me, and I’m tired of grasping for what isn’t mine only to lose it in the end.
40
Rhys
We fall asleep sometime during episode four, and when I wake up Netflix has auto-played several more episodes. I get the streaming and TV situation straightened out, and then I consider what to do about the woman sleeping on my couch.
I could leave her there. Cover her with a blanket.
But that’s not what I want to do.
And I’m tired of resisting impulses where she’s concerned, so I don’t.
I scoop her up and carry her into the bedroom. I strip off her shoes and jeans while she protests sleepily but doesn’t actively rebel, and I tuck her in under the covers. Then I climb in next to her, wrap my arms around her, and go back to sleep.
I waketo light streaming through the window and a heavy weight on my chest. It’s Eden; she’s draped herself over me so that her head rests in the crook of my shoulder and her arm pins me to the bed.
I tug her closer, and she stirs and snuggles her face into my chest. Then she lifts her head, gives me a sleepy smile, and says, “Good morning.”
“Good morning. Want to come with me to Rush Creek Bakery for a stuffed croissant?”
“Yes,” she says, her eagerness making me laugh.
“You want first shower?”
She bites her lip. “We couldshare.”
“We could.”
“You’ve seen everything already.”
“I definitely have. And I’d happily see it again.”
It feels early for a shared shower. I don’t think I’ve ever showered with someone before the first time we fucked. But it also feels right with Eden, companionably shedding clothes, laughing about the fact that she’s wearing panties from our road trip, her eyes stuttering and getting stuck on my cock for a long time, until I teasingly say, “Eyes up here,” and even then, she keeps staring.
“You can touch, too,” I say. By now my cock has responded to the admiration by standing up and saluting her, and when she reaches out and touches me, it twitches under her hand. Her exploration is curious and slow and lazy, not going anywhere, and it feels amazing.
We step in, and I can’t remember the last time a shower felt so good—not only the hot water, but the heat and slip of her skin as we move to stand under the water together. I soap her body, admiring every curve and all the slick satin skin, and she does the same to me, her hand coming back to where she left off, stroking me, fisting. My fingers find their way between her folds, and we match each other’s rhythm, my thumb on her clit, my fingers thrusting in and out of her as she works her fist tight around my shaft.
“Wait for me,” she says breathlessly.
