Page 21 of The Carver

The cords in his neck tightened like I’d just murmured some dirty talk that turned him on, but I meant the request. Flushed in arousal, his skin shiny with sweat, he gave hard thrusts as I came, and once my high started to fade, he began his final pumps, filling me with a load of his seed.

After a beat, he pulled out then kissed my stomach and the valley between my tits. He sucked each nipple into his mouth then abruptly headed into the bathroom. The shower came on a moment later.

I slowly unfolded my body and felt the strain in my muscles and joints. I turned over, lying on his made bed, my knees toward my chest, ready to fall asleep but too cold to do so. I’d done nothing since we’d walked into his bedroom, but I was exhausted, like I’d been the one on top. It took a surge of strength to leave the bed and step into the bathroom.

His bathroom was far beyond average. His walk-in shower had two showerheads, and his vanity had two sinks and lots of counter space, so much that there was room for a huge vase of flowers between the two sinks. The toilet was in a separate room with a door, away from the shower.

I watched him stand under the warm water and rub the bar of soap over his skin, easily a star in female-friendly porn, and then I stepped into the toilet to do my business. When I came out, I admired the tub, which looked more like one in a spa or a hotel. With gold marble for the foundation and a gold-plated faucet designed in the shape of a rose, the bathroom alone was worth more than a modest apartment in Paris.

The water turned off, and he stepped out and gave himself a quick towel-dry. “Use it if you want.”

“Would you join me?”

“The game is coming on, and I’ve got some work to do.”

“Okay. I’ll head home.”

He’d just wiped down his legs and his stomach when he heard what I said. He stilled and gave me a look that said he was about to snap. “Did I ask you to leave?”

“But you just said?—”

“I did not ask you to leave. We can do different things but still be together. Take a bath. Gerard can bring champagne and strawberries.”

That sounded heavenly, to sit there in that big tub and not worry about a single thing, listening to the sound of the game, knowing Bastien was just in the other room. But I still felt like I was infringing on his space, and the last thing I wanted to do was overstay my welcome. “I?—”

I only got a single word out. Because he looked like he was about to lose it. He didn’t say a word, but the hardness in his face was distinct, like fire and lava lurked behind the stare, about to burstfree. He’d never yelled at me before, but it seemed like that was about to change.

“Champagne and strawberries would be great.”

His temper was immediately sheathed, and he turned to the vanity and the mirror to comb his damp hair and brush his teeth. “Good.”

I sat in the tub for an hour, drinking champagne and eating the chocolate-covered strawberries that his chef made or Gerard had run out and purchased. I wasn’t sure which happened, but they were damn good.

The more time I spent at Bastien’s place, the less I liked my apartment. There wasn’t a big tub in a beautiful bathroom, and there wasn’t a beautiful man in it either. Sometimes I heard him yell at the TV when the ref made a call he didn’t like. It was abrupt and angry, but hearing his voice from the other room was somehow soothing, just being close to him.

Once all the champagne and strawberries were gone and my skin was pruned, I drained the tub and dried off with the towel he’d used on himself. I returned to his bedroom and realized I didn’t have any panties to wear to bed.

I helped myself to one of his t-shirts and grabbed a pair of boxers too, rolling them several times at the waist so they would fit. I had work in the morning, so I should get home to make tomorrow easier. But I didn’t want to leave, and I suspected Bastien would snap if I tried.

I moved into the sitting area and saw him blanketed by the light of the TV, his open laptop on the coffee table, a glass of scotch beside it. He was relaxed on the couch, arm over the back of the cushions, his expression hard in consternation because he was into the game.

I stepped into the room, and his eyes immediately shifted from the TV to me. “How was your bath?”

“Fucking heavenly.” I took the spot beside him.

His arm immediately dropped around my shoulders, and he pulled me into him, one of his bare feet propped on the coffee table. He held me to him like a teddy bear and watched the rest of the game. There were only a couple minutes left, so I stayed quiet and let him see the outcome.

He seemed to be rooting for Manchester United, because when they won, he said, “That’s right, motherfuckers.” To avoid the commercials and the commentary, he grabbed the remote and turned off the TV. The fire continued to burn, the flames low because it hadn’t been fed in a while.

“You don’t strike me as a big sports guy.”

“I’m not, but I like to gamble.”

“You had money on this game?”

“Ten dimes.”

I looked at the fire, unsure what that meant. “Like a dollar?”

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