Page 67 of Loud Unspoken Memories

He was going to call me sweetheart. Just like he did up on the tower. Only this time, he caught himself. I try not to read too much into it, pretending I didn’t notice as I toss off the covers. “You have no idea how excited I am.”

On the way to the bathroom, I shed the clothes I put on when he was outside, leaving a trail of sleep pants, his Yale hoodie, a T-shirt, my socks and, lastly, my undies. At the bathroom door, I turn to see if he was watching. He most definitely was. I pop my right foot up behind me before stepping through the door.

I leave it open, hoping maybe he’ll join me after all, but when I study the tub, I know he’s right. No way will it fit both of us. Two small people, maybe. But not someone as tall and broad as he is.

When I step in with one foot, my eyes roll to the back of my head. It’s warmer than I expected. There’s even steam rising from the water. I sink down into it, reveling in the feeling as every inch of my skin touches the water. It’s pure heaven.

I waste no time grabbing his loofah and squirting body wash on it. I meticulously wash every part of my body, knowing this is the cleanest I’ve been in a week. When I wash between my legs, I realize how raw I am. Flashbacks of the last day bombard me. The way his stubble felt between my thighs. How his fingers worked inside me. And his tongue… oh, Lord, his amazingly skilled tongue. I’d be surprised if he didn’t sprain it with how many times he used it to make me come.

My eyes open to catch him leaning against the doorway, watching. He’s changed out of his jeans and into sweatpants, making his erection clearly visible to anyone looking. And, yes, I’m looking. But I hold a hand up in a ‘stop’ motion. “No way, buddy. This coochie needs a minute to recover.”

He laughs heartily. It’s an easy laugh. A carefree laugh. One I’ve never heard before but warms my heart even more than the water does.

“How about a glass of wine?” he asks.

“That would be heavenly.”

He disappears for far longer than it would take to get a glass of wine. When he returns, he has a glass in one hand, and one of the large pots—the one with a carry handle on top—in the other. He hands me the glass and sets the pot near the tub. “I thought we could use this to rinse out your hair.”

“We?” I raise an eyebrow.

He kneels on the rug next to the tub, squirts shampoo into his hands, and washes my hair.

I’ve had many people wash my hair before. Hairdressers. Not hot burly men who chop wood, climb towers, and rescue women. And definitely not hot burly men who have given me countless orgasms.

I practically have another as he gently works his hands through my hair and massages my scalp. I even groan in pleasure once or twice. I never want it to end. But the water turns tepid and I know my time in here is short.

His hands disappear.

I miss them more than I can say. My eyes close knowing it’s just a precursor of things to come.

“Look up,” he says, picking up the bucket. “And keep your eyes closed. I’ve never done this before.”

His statement makes butterflies dance in my stomach. Am I the first woman to have her hair washed by him? Or perhaps just the first to have water dumped on her head. Either way, it’s comforting to know that maybe, just maybe, when I’m gone, he’ll think of this… think ofme… without the memory being clouded by her.

Before any other thoughts ofwhen I’m gonecan ruin this moment, warm water splashes against my forehead, cascading down my back as it flushes out the shampoo. I moan at the feeling. My mouth relaxes open and I murmur, “Oh, god.”

“Will you stop doing that?” he says, placing the bucket on the floor before squeezing excess water from my hair.

“Doing what?”

“Making sex noises.”

My lips smash together in a thin line, holding in my laughter. I peek at his crotch, which is in almost perfect alignment with my head, and my eyes widen at the massivebulge. “Put that thing away, mister. I told you, I’m temporarily closed for business.”

“Temporarily.” He ponders the word. “So, just, you know, ballpark, when might we expect your, um…doorsto be open again?”

Just to add fire to the flames, I reach down and put a hand between my thighs as if I’m checking for soreness. I’m not. I’m teasing him. And it’s working exactly as intended. His eyes lock onto my hand as I move a finger between my folds.

“Jesus,” he whispers.

Without warning, his hands go under my armpits, and I’m being hauled out of the tub. He wraps me in a fluffy towel, puts another one in my hands, presumably for my hair, and then he pushes me toward the door.

“I need the room,” he says once I’m through. Then the door closes, leaving me dripping wet and confused.

Making my way to the fireplace, it dawns on me why heneeds the room.

Tingles shoot through my body when I think of what he’s doing behind the door. Wetness, that’s not from bath water, coats the area between my legs. I sit on the edge of the bed, unable to keep my fingers from wandering beneath the towel.

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