Taking one, I pop it in my mouth because fuck it, I don’t need strawberries to make this night romantic when I have her. I grab the two flutes and start for the bathroom again. Stopping, I lean back and say, “Get that cute ass in here.”
As playful as I’d like the rest of the night to be, I know we have heavier topics to discuss ahead. It’s just going to take a while to get there. We have a pattern I discovered. We swerve through conversations, taking unexpected detours and hitting roadblocks, but we always manage to get to our destination.
We’ll do it again and come out on the other side stronger as a couple. Who am I with this couple talk? I grin, unashamed of this change in me, and pop the champagne to fill the glasses.
A knock has me turning back and then doing a double take. Story, dressed in nothing but a smile, asks, “You ready for me?”
I set the bottle down beside the tub, then cross the tiled floor, taking hold of her hips. I can’t keep my hands off those delectable hips. “I’m ready for you, babe.”
We kiss, but she pulls back, too excited and wanting to peek around me. “Cooper.” She covers her mouth, her eyes volleying between me and the tub. “You did not.”
“I did. I did this for you. Do you want to get in?”
“I definitely want to get in.” Releasing her briefly, I turn the faucet knobs to shut off the water. It’s filled more than it should, knowing that two of us in the tub means there’s a strong chance the water will overflow.
She steps into the tub and dips into the water until it’s just barely covering her nipples. There’s no awkwardness in her body language, and she doesn’t hide from me, not even the scar that she purposely hid before. Like me, she’s changing. I can only hope it’s because of me. Like I have because of her. To have that kind of effect, one that is filled with, dare I say, hope is exhilarating. A different kind of high than I used to need.
Her hazel eyes are set on me as she runs soapy water down one arm and across her chest. The teasing vixen.
Leaning against the counter, it feels almost illegal to watch this woman bathe.
She takes the glass of champagne and a small sip before looking me over from head to toe and back again. “Are you going to come in? The temperature of the water is perfect.” Red rose petals dot her skin, and her hair is twisted up on her head. She takes another sip and sinks back against the tub.
I stand there and let a few heartbeats pass before I need to touch her again and start undressing. It’s late, but we’re both wide-awake. There is no point rushing into the new day, even if it is a holiday.
When I step in, the water’s warm, and the suds are already vanishing, but the petals remain vibrant against her pale skin. I ease down, cramming my body to fit and stretching my legs on either side of her, and spread my arms wide on the sides of the large porcelain tub.
Doesn’t take long before she says, “I’m coming over.” She spins to maneuver between my legs and rest her back against my chest. When she stills, her hands rub down my thighs.
I like her softness, the bones on the inside where they belong instead of protruding, and wrap my arms around her. The comfort I’ve found in this woman started like a shot of adrenaline—making my heart race as my soul calmed—but I’m already getting used to it. It feels good not to feel chaotic inside.
Sliding my hands up her arms, I stop when I reach her shoulders and start massaging—gentle but with firm pressure to reach any pains built up from the long day. Her body begins to release the tension as it melts against me. I tilt my head to the side and whisper, “I want us to be together, Story.”
She shifts around to look me in the eyes. “We are together, Cooper.” It’s said as if we’ve always been this way.
“Committed to each other.”
Confusion cinches her brows together. “I was already committed to you.”
Maybe that’s what I got wrong. I’ve been so caught up in how she makes me feel that I wasn’t seeing the effect I’ve had on her. Hearing her say the words I wanted in return is a balm to the angst I’ve been carrying around for years.
Twisting even more, she kisses me before caressing my cheek and taking a moment to stare, and then tucks her head under my chin. I cover her back with water carried in the palm of my hand, wanting to keep her warm when so much skin is exposed to the cooler air.
“We’ve moved fast,” she whispers.
“Like the storm that brought us together.”
Nodding, she lifts her chin, looking me in the eyes again. “Just like that.” Another thought she keeps hidden from me flickers in her eyes, and she adds, “Don’t hurt me, okay?”
I’ve seen her sick.
Exposing shame she feels over a scar on her body.
Hide the fact that she was a virgin before me.
I’ve seen Story at the most opportune times of vulnerability, but I never witnessed it until now.
My soul shifts when I hear the fear in her voice and see it written in her eyes like it’s always lived there. I’ll take it away. I’ll spend my days making sure she never has to feel this way again.
Tracing the outline of her face with the tips of my fingers, I stop and hold her chin, making sure her eyes are set on mine. “I will never hurt you. I promise, Story.” It’s the easiest promise I’ve ever made, the only one I knew the answer to before the question existed in the universe. “Never.”
Relief comes quickly along with her smile. “I know you’re not asking, but I promise not to hurt you either.” She kisses me before turning around and easing back against me again.
Once she’s secured in my arms, she misses the smile that splits my cheeks. I’m sure I look like an idiot, but I don’t think anyone has ever said that to me before. If they have, there’s no one in my life I would have believed.
Until Story.
“My mom’s boyfriend killed her.”
My smile’s gone, the good replaced with horror as tension fills my body and my hold on her involuntarily tightens. She pushes forward again to look at me. “You’re not breathing.”
“I didn’t notice.” I try to act like she didn’t just drop the bomb of all bombs into the middle of our bath. I take a few breaths, but acting indifferent is impossible, especially with her now staring at me.
She rests her hand on my chest. “Are you all right?”
“I’m . . .” I run my wet fingers through my hair, glancing away from her. “A little shocked, and I don’t know what to say to you.”
A small smile graces her face. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything.”
My shoulders fall, feeling helpless to do or say the right thing. I wrap my arms around her. “I do. I want to know how you’re doing.”
She turns all the way around, pushing back to rest against the other side of the tub and face me. Her eyes scan mine as if she’s the one who’s checking on how I’m doing. Appearing satisfied, she drops her hands under the water. “I survived.”
“What do you mean you survived?”
Resting her head back, she closes her eyes. “I wore shorts that day.” Her lids lift. “Really short shorts, like my ass hanging out the back short.”
I shrug. “People wear what they want. I’m not seeing a problem with this.”
“Neither did I. But my mom’s boyfriend, Hank, sure did.”
Hank . . .
“He always told me if he were my father, he’d be stricter with me. It was a double standard because even though he wasn’t my father—thank God—he still smacked me when my mom wasn’t around. Gave me a black eye once. Popped me right in the face when he found my boyfriend in my room.”
Rubbing the bridge of my nose, I try to temper the anger growing inside. “Fucking hell, Story.” I’ve been in fights, too many to count, sometimes picking shit just to feel something other than the void I felt at home. Sometimes, in defense of friends or even girls I knew when guys crossed lines. But for a guy to hit a woman . . . I’d fucking lose it on them.