Page 9 of The Cabin
When she gets out of the shower, she’s a different woman. Softer, sweeter, warmer. Nurse Bell is harder, sharper, colder. Not unkind, not at all. Nurse Bell is the human definition of understanding and compassion and kindness. But it’s a kindness that has seen pretty much the worst the medical field can offer.
Nadia feels me, hears me.
Pauses, hands up behind her head, about to free the last inch of braid. I slide up behind her. Capture her hands in mine. Bring her knuckles to my lips, kiss each one, pinky to thumb of her left hand, thumb to pinky of her right. Then I kiss each palm.
She holds her breath.
Her eyes are closed—I don’t have to see her reflection in the mirror to know this. She always closes her eyes when I kiss her hands like this.
I love her hands. They are strong, efficient, capable, but they can also be soft and loving and clever.
Oh, the things she can do with these hands. I treasure the way these hands make me feel, and so I always begin our lovemaking by kissing them.
I finish unbraiding her hair; she’s got her brush on the counter, waiting. I know how she brushes her hair. I slide the brush through her black locks, beginning on the left side and working my way around to the right. Then underneath, right back around to the left. And then in sections, until the kinks are gone and the wispy flyaways are smoothed down into place and her long, wickedly thick, raven-wing hair shimmers almost blue-purple and it’s glossy again and perfect.
She just breathes, and lets me brush.
The shower is still running. I let it run.
She’s antsy. Eager. Reaching behind herself, for me.
I let her.
Let her find my shirt hem, and let her help me shrug out of it. I match her, tugging the pale green scrub top off, tossing it into her hamper. Her turn. She fiddles blindly with my belt buckle, her body angled away from mine to make room for her hands, while her shoulders rest against my chest and her head leans on my shoulder, face turned to my neck, lips nipping and kissing at my throat.
While she fumbles with my belt buckle, freeing it and then working on the fly of my jeans, I caress her torso. Her taut flat belly, her sides, her ribcage and diaphragm. The elastic of her sports bra. I lift that up, off it goes I know not where. Cup her breasts, whisper murmurs of relief as I fill my hands with her flesh, then moan with need as she shoves at my jeans, my underwear. I help her, I kick out of them. I untie her scrub bottom, and she makes quick work of shucking out of them and her underwear.
We’re naked together.
This is only part one. She wants everything. The shower, the bed, handcuffs, kisses, bitten shoulders, our walls echoing with screams.
But first.
Oh, first.
This.
I dip at the knees. She grasps me. Feeds me into her, and I stand up, fill her. She whimpers my name—Adrian, oh god, Adrian—and I cup her breasts in one hand, fondling each slight, small, round peak. With my other, I touch her, the way she loves and needs to be touched. She’s tense. She needs this. She’ll never take it for herself while I’m gone.
I move slowly, dipping at the knees and rising again, to fill her, to plunge. Her kisses rake along my jaw, her hand clutching at my cheek, her other hand awkwardly and clumsily scrabbling at my buttocks, helping and encouraging my movements.
We haven’t said a word of greeting.
None is needed.
Just this. Hands reacquainting with beloved flesh, with the curves in which I delight, the hard angles of mine which she treasures.
I groan as I glory in the way she squeezes around me, in the way she gasps, in the way her knees forget to stay locked as I bring her to climax. Her eyes are open, as are mine. Watching us.
We can see where we’re joined. She’s leaning backward, into me, and I’m lifting. Circling her softness as she rises to the moment, moans becoming ragged, moans becoming my name chanted.
She comes.
I lift her in my arms—she’s limp and boneless, for the moment.
“The water,” she whispers.
“I’ve got it.”
I settle her on the bed. Go back to the bathroom, shut off the shower; we won’t be needing that for a while.
When I turn back to our bed, she’s recovered. Posed. Sprawled out on the bed, spread-eagle. Touching herself. Massaging her breast, her sex. In one hand, she has two pairs of handcuffs, lined with some soft plush black material. She latches one set to her wrist and the bedpost. The key is in the hole, so I can twist it and release her, when she’s ready.
She hands me the other.
