Page 84 of The Last Good Man

Dragging his fingers down, he opens my robe.

He looks down. And I look downtoo. Intrigued.

Slowly, he runs his fingers south, removing the rest of the foam while following the planes of my body.

His fingers no longer clean me up. They just stroke me quietly in awe as my skin responds with goosebumps.

I lift my gaze and peer at him, fascinated.

“You’re so fine, baby…” he murmurs, and for the first time in a long while, or maybe ever, I have this distinct feeling that this man genuinely likes me.

He’s either a great actor or truthfully ensnared by me.

Either way, I won’t find the answer tonight, so I stop his hand from making trips down my stomach, knowing exactly where it’s headed.

“Why are you back?” I ask, not irate butratherhopeful.

His eyes smile first while he splays his hand over my lower abdomen and gently touches my slit.

“I forgot my lighter and cigarettes.”

He tilts his head toward the other room, and I remember him placing them near the window.

“I didn’t hear your car.”

“It’s half a mile down the road. I came back on foot.”

My eyes go to his hair.

“It’s no longer raining?” I murmur.

He confirms with a tilt of his head.

“It’s still windy, though.”

“Why on foot?” I ask while he lowers his eyes and strokes my slit again.

“I wanted to get some fresh air and think about things.”

“What things?”

That hopeful voice rolls off my lips again.

He brings his gaze to me, his fingers moving deeper, parting my folds.

“You weren’t thinking about sex, were you?” I say, smiling while the first flicker of pleasure rises from his touch before pacing through my veins.

He clicks his tongue.

“No.”

My silence makes him smile.

“But you were… “ he says, tilting his chin toward the bathtub.

“I wasn’t,” I say with a pitiful lack of convictionin my voice.

“Why do you deny yourself these things?” he asks after a moment.

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