Page 22 of Show Me How to Heal
“You’re what?”
“Klebrig.”
“Yeah?” He blinked expectantly. “You’re not speaking English.”
“I am.”
“No.” He rolled his eyes. “I’d know if you were speaking English because that’s literally the only language I speak, and that word definitely didn’t sound right.”
“Oh… uhm…” I blushed. “I’m…gluey… no… sticky? I mean, I definitely am. There’s dried cum on my belly, but is that the right word?”
Zayne snorted a laugh, patting my belly — with the dried cum on it — gently. “Sticky’s right, yeah. Honestly, if it weren’t for the accent, I’d totally forget you aren’t American. Your English is pretty good.”
Yeah, because I’d played in England for a year, and we’d had quite a few non-German-speaking players on my team when I’d played in Germany. It’d just been easier to speak English because everyone knew at least a little bit of it.
However, that wasn’t information I was going to relay to Zayne, even though a small part of me wanted to. The part that wanted to be honest and up-front with the guy I’d slept with. But the bigger part of me wanted to make sure my identity stayed a secret. Even the thought of the press finding out about my whereabouts made my stomach clench with dread.
No.
Nope.
Nuh-uh.
I couldn’t go through that again. I’d die. Literally die. Or I’d freak the fuck out and become one of those maniacs who attacked a paparazzo. So yeah, keeping certain things to myself was safer — for everyone involved. Including Zayne. I didn’t want to know what’d happen if the press found out about him. He’d probably be accused of taking advantage of my vulnerable state and turning me gay.
In the end, I settled for a simple “thanks” before trying to sit up in bed. “You never said if you wanted to shower with me.”
Zayne grinned mischievously. “Seeing you naked, water cascading down your tight abs? Yeah, I want; I definitely want.” Still smiling, he jumped out of the bed. For someone who’d been incredibly tired mere minutes ago, he was pretty agile. More agile than me, at least. It took me a couple of seconds to sit up, get out of that weird sheet-contraption — seriously, how the fuck had Zayne managed to jump out of bed, while I had problems getting out at all? — and get my knee on board with movement. The first steps of the day were always the worst. My knee was super stiff, the muscles protesting, nerves wreaking havoc and misfiring information until the pain ebbed away to a dull ache after a couple of seconds.
I carefully walked one step, then another one, and a third one for good measure. No big problems. I was good to go to the bathroom without my crutches. If my PT saw that, she’d have words with me, but fortunately she was nowhere near my stark-naked ass because hand jobs in the shower sounded a lot less appealing for me with a woman present. Especially my fifty-year-old PT.
Zayne’s bathroom was small but nice. It had everything a bathroom needed, and the tiles looked modern. The shower wasn’t that big, so it was a tight fit for the two of us to get in together, but I couldn’t say I minded the proximity.
He smelled like sweat, cum, and this woodsy smell I already associated with him.
He’d opened his braids prior to stepping into the shower, and his long hair now cascaded in loose waves down to his ass. Holy shit, that probably shouldn’t be sexy, but I couldn’t help but touch his hair. It felt as soft and silky as it looked.
I loved the feeling of the strands gliding through my fingers.
Zayne started the shower, the warm water turning his light brown hair almost black.
I let my head fall back, closed my eyes, and sighed.
This was great. Feeling Zayne’s body, his warmth next to me, hot water pouring down on us, washing away the sticky feeling… yeah, I don’t think there were any better ways to start the day.
Except for…
“Where’s your shampoo?” I asked, looking for a telltale bottle in the shower, but there was none. Instead, he had two bars of soap and a bottle of… vinegar? Who the fuck stored vinegar in his shower? Granted, it was apple-cider vinegar and not the regular one, but still. I’d never heard someone say, “Oh yeah, whenever I shower, I just drink a bottle of vinegar. It's a thing.”
Zayne turned off the water. “I don’t have any,” he said with a shrug, obviously aiming to sound casual, but there was a tightness in his voice that hadn’t been present before.
“What do you mean you don’t have shampoo? How do you wash your hair?” At that length, he had to do something. Honestly, I’d expected a ton of expensive beauty products. Shampoo, conditioner, moisturizing hair masks — stuff like that. Hell, I had more hair products than he did.
“I’m a soap maker. I use soap,” he told me.
“Soap? For your hair?”
Zayne nodded. “Yeah. It’s a thing. Obviously, you can’t use regular bars of soap from the drugstore or that liquid soap-stuff. But if you use a handmade soap with good oils and a little or a lot of superfat percentage — depending on the hair — you absolutely can wash your hair with soap. It actually works really well, and I don’t even need conditioner anymore. Just my soap and a rinse.”
