Corinne forced the tears away quickly, refusing to indulge in a hurt that had happened fifteen years ago. She could’ve screamed if she wanted. There was nobody to hear her. Her younger sister, Caitlyn, had shown up a few weeks ago with a duffel bag and a story she still hadn’t told, but she’d gone to Delaware to visit their parents for the weekend. The kids had been with their dad last night to attend a dance recital for their stepsister Allyson and would stay there through the weekend. Douglas’s new wife—Karen—Allyson, and another stepsister Hannah, as well as a new puppy, were guaranteed to keep them occupied. In the beginning, Peyton had called home four or five times a day and texted quadruple that amount, while her younger brother Tyler had simply refused to talk about anything that went on at their dad’s. It was a good thing, Corinne reminded herself, that the kids had adjusted to their new family. But now, in the big, silent house that had once been their family home and was now empty half the time, all she could think about was how fucking lonely it was without them.
Nothing good ever came of wallowing. Corinne got up and out of bed. She wasn’t going to have time to stop at the diner this morning, though if she rushed a little she’d at least have the chance to brew a single cup of mediocre coffee to take with her.
In the shower, she got beneath the water before it had time to get hot. With a yelp, dancing and shivering, she turned so the spray could pound her back and shoulders, where she carried most of her tension. She put a hand flat on the wall as she reached for her washcloth with the other. She couldn’t find it, though she was sure she’d hung a fresh one on the small hook just last night. Dammit. Teeth chattering, Corinne looked around but found no cloth, which meant she’d need to step out and get one.
These were the moments when being alone hit her so hard. When there was nobody to shout for, “Hey, can you grab me that washcloth?” Nobody to argue over what to watch on television. Nobody to remember to bring up the garbage pails, except her, and she always, always forgot.
Of course, one of the huge reasons why she and Douglas had ended up splitting was because he hadn’t been the sort of man to do those things for her, at least not without a lot of reminding. It had always been so difficult with him. He wasn’t a bad guy. Not a terrible husband. He was simply more interested in whatever it was he wanted than he’d ever been in taking care of anything else.
Her boy would’ve made sure the cloth was hanging on her hook before she even got in the shower, and if he hadn’t, he’d have been there at once to bring it to her. Thinking of this as the water at last warmed to a reasonable temperature, Corinne let herself sink once more into memories.
He’d learned her. Known her. Sure, things had turned bad and it had ended, but that was always the way. If things weren’t bad, they didn’t end.
Corinne’s hand slipped between her thighs at the memories of her boy on his knees, head bowed, rubbing her feet while she drank iced coffee and flipped through silly gossip magazines. All those hours spent on her feet waiting tables had left her with painful arches and cramping toes. Other men might feign a brief interest in massaging away the pain, but only so far as it meant them eventually getting in her pants. Her boy rubbed her feet until they no longer hurt, even if they both knew she didn’t plan on fucking him.
That had been the difference between him and all the other men she’d ever dated. Other men had claimed they wanted to please her, and some of them had tried, but in the end it had always come down to them giving her what she wanted as long as it was also what they wanted to give her. Her boy had taken care of her needs before his own, no matter what.
“You don’t want a boyfriend, you want a dog,” one ex-lover had accused in the final fight that had ended that relationship.
He hadn’t understood her at all.
With one hand still flat on the wall, she let the fingers of the other slide through her folds, finding slick heat between her thighs. When she brushed the tight knot of her clit with her thumb, everything inside her contracted. Tensing. Pulsing.
She thought of her boy in a slightly different position, still on his knees but his back and shoulders straight. Chin lifted. Hands crossed behind his back while he faced the corner for some small infraction she could no longer recall. Sometimes he’d sassed her just so she would be pushed to discipline him.
“Fuck,” Corinne breathed and turned her face up to the water as she opened her mouth.
God, she missed kissing. Tangled tongues, sloppy wetness, the heat of breath on her face. A hand on the back of her head, keeping her close.
She tweaked her clit between her thumb and forefinger, slowly. Then faster. Her fingers curled and slipped on the wet tile. Her hips rocked, and she settled her feet a little wider apart. She wanted, needed, to be filled, but all she had was the thickness of her first two fingers. The heel of her hand pressed her clit as she fucked into herself.
She remembered taking him in the shower. Laughing, teasing, she’d told him he’d been a dirty boy and needed a good scrubbing. Compliant as always, obedient, her boy had allowed her to put him under the spray and had stood patiently while she soaped a cloth. It had quickly become too difficult to laugh around the sharp intake of her breath as she moved the cloth over his firm, taut muscles. He’d always been so, so lovely.
“Hands on the wall.” Corinne’s voice is low and a little harsh, the tone meant to trigger him. It triggers her, too, when she talks like this. Commanding but not cruel.