Page 79 of Five Days in July
25
MATT
The thought that she’s been wearing such sexy lingerie underneath her clothes every day makes me edgy. The see-through panels on this one make it look and feel insubstantial in my fingers. It smells like her too. Part of me wants to raise it to my face and inhale the earthy scent, but my thinking brain recognizes that’s a bit stalker-y.
Shaking off the waves of lust still rocking through me, I dig out a towel and slowly walk over to the tub. She watches me, and I see that I’m not the only one still thinking about what we just did.
Dropping the towel to the floor, I bend down and mop up the mess of water and bubbles that she’s splashed out of the tub. I don’t want her to slip accidentally. Her eyes track my movements, and I swear I can feel them moving over my skin.
Leaving the towel spread below the tub to absorb any more splashes or overflows, I kneel on it, just close enough to see the way her pupils dilate.
We must reach for each other at the same time because one second she’s staring at me, and the next, we’re kissing. My lips move slowly against hers, tempering the need I still feel. Her fingers press into my shoulders, nails digging in just a little, enough that I can feel the sting from their imprints.
Miraculously she opens her mouth, and I slowly slip my tongue inside, easing forward cautiously, sure at any moment, she’s going to tell me to stop. She doesn’t, though, and my fingers find a handful of hair, using it to anchor her to me while I deepen the kiss.
I can already feel myself growing stiffer, and with a groan, I pull away before she does. Keeping a hand at the back of her head, just at the nape, I don’t let her get too far.
She’s flushed a delightful shade of pink, and her quick breaths send small rivers of water over the tub onto the towel. I feel like we’re doing this backward, but I’m willing to go whatever route Nore wants in this relationship.
“Let me wash you?” I ask, needing some excuse to keep touching her and hold me back from climbing in and taking things too far.
She nods, and I look around for a washcloth. Not seeing one, I quickly retrieve one from the little shelf and another towel to lay on the floor. Crossing back, I fold the second towel and reach for the soap she already has set out.
Reaching across her for it, my heart sinks when she drops back into the tub, too quickly to have been anything other than an involuntary reaction.
“I’m sorry,” she blurts.
“Remember, if you want to stop, I’ll stop.” I lean back on my heels and wait for her response. I see her hesitate, but she slowly lifts her hands to the edge of the tub. Her delicate fingers slip over the curved lip and hold on tightly.
She nods. “I’m ready.” Her eyes meet mine, and to my relief, there’s no fear there. “I trust you, Matt.”
Inhaling deeply, trying to control myself, I rub the soap onto the washcloth and between my hands, building a lather. She watches me, and I catch her quick glance down my body when I lean back a little.
Trying to gauge her reaction, I start with her arms. Lifting the nearest one, I run the cloth up and down. The trails of soap trace the edges of her lean muscles before sliding off to join the scented ones that still blanket the water thickly enough to hide what’s underneath.
The bubbles move and shift when her body does, but the clear spots refill with new bubbles too quickly to get a clear image. I imagine her smooth legs rubbing together. The way her belly will hollow, and her toes will curl. My imagination runs wild with the way she’ll react, especially with how she looks when she comes. When I stepped out of the shower, her cheeks were still delightfully flushed from a combination of her release and the heat.
She leans her head back again and closes her eyes, restless movements settling into relaxation.
Finished with the first arm, I reach across the tub and lift the far one. She doesn’t flinch away this time, instead turning slightly toward me and raising a shoulder out of the water. Her upper chest is exposed, and I run the cloth and the tips of my fingers across her collarbones, dipping into the water to cascade more droplets across her skin.
Her eyes are still closed, but her breathing quickens.
“Lenore.” My voice is raspy. I’m not sure if I’ve ever felt this desperate mix of desire and care before—to touch her, give her pleasure, and protect her in every possible way.
Her eyes peel open, and she looks at me. She’s slightly unfocused, drunk on the pleasurable sensations.
“Give me your foot.”
She takes a shuddering breath and moves to rest against the tub, unfortunately sinking lower so the bubbles are right below her chin again. She raises one water-slick foot out of the tub and offers it to me. The soles of her feet are just starting to wrinkle, and I trace the lines, learning that she’s ticklish.
I drape the washcloth over the side of the tub and wrap my fingers around her small ankle. The bones seem so light, so breakable. I know she’s physically and mentally strong, but compared to me and most other people, she’s so small.
Raising her leg gently, I prop it on the side of the tub, exposing it from knee to toes. I’d love to see her thighs and watch the water run down them, but if I lift it any further, I think she’ll dive under the water again.
I use the pads of my fingers and gently knead the muscles in her calves. I can feel the tension built up in her muscles from our walk today. She might be sore tomorrow, and I want to alleviate as much of it as possible.
As I continue to work, I feel her body grow lax and small sounds of pleasure fill the air.