Laurel watched the scene streaking by her window—brick and ocean and sleeping steel cranes and more brick—for the rest of the drive, triumph forgotten, worries settling in like old friends around a smoky bar.
It’s been over two weeks since we’ve had sex. That couldn’t be helping his anxiety. Still, the thought buoyed her some; she felt strong again, stronger than before the pregnancy, even. No doubt he was waiting for her to initiate, after what she’d been through. Well, no problem there. She’d be happy to peel the sweater off him when they got back to his place, remind herself that his body was for more than merely holding her, those hands capable of feats far less kindly than marathon back rubs.
He parked behind his building and they slammed their doors in the quiet night, the rest of South Boston feeling as though it had gone to bed, though it was barely eight.
How much am I up for, tonight?
Probably not role-playing. She didn’t want to go there until she felt him return to her, his usual self.
His usual self. It occurred to her then, Flynn was the most consistent person she’d ever known. He didn’t have mood swings, not unless bloodlust and horniness counted. He got annoyed now and then, but he never went quiet like this. She supposed most people did, and of course he was entitled to, but something about it… It was unnerving. It felt as though he were made of stone as they rode the elevator up to the fifth floor. Cold and silent.
He let them into the apartment and eased up the lights. Laurel had brought her overnight bag and she tossed it on the loveseat. Force of habit from these past couple of mopey weeks urged her to pull out her pajamas and get comfy, but she caught herself. Not tonight. She was wearing a skirt, after all. It’d be a shame not to get fucked in it.
Flynn was unlacing his shoes at the couch and she passed by on her way to the bathroom, leaned down and planted a kiss on his temple. He kept his eyes on the task. That taste of coolness dug the worry hole deeper, but she forced it from her mind as she brushed her teeth and her hair, dabbed her shiny forehead with a wad of toilet paper.
She looked how she felt—lit up and alive. Maybe a little nervous and rusty, but more awake than she had in so, so long. She’d show Flynn that she was better again. Show the both of them that her body wasn’t a fragile, fractured shell in need of kid gloves.
The red towel was folded on the shelf above the toilet. She eyed it. No, no goring. Not tonight, anyhow. She flipped off the light and fan.
He was still on the couch when she exited, perusing a piece of mail, its ripped envelope in one hand.
“Riveting news?” she asked.
“Mm?”
She plopped down beside him. “Your mail. Anything thrilling?”
“Nah. Gas bill.”
“At least those’ll be getting smaller, now.”
“Mm.”
He hadn’t looked at her once since they’d gotten in, had he? In a blink, she realized what must be going on—he was feeling insecure. What Flynn himself called “Uptown Girl Syndrome.” How working-class guys could be real dicks if they were involved with women who outpaced them, education-or profession-wise. Plus Flynn had told her before he’d wanted to be more than a construction worker, once upon a time. He’d wanted to do what she’d trained to, basically, to be a civil engineer or an architect. Maybe her good news, her chance at a career, was giving him blue-collar angst.
She knew better than to ask. If that was the culprit, best to go with carnal distraction, rather than make a big deal of it.
“May I?” she asked, plucking the bill from one of his hands, the envelope from the other. She set them on the coffee table and leaned close, rubbing his chest.
He accepted a kiss—at first stiffly, but softening in seconds, rewarding her with a hot sweep of his tongue. She felt her body soften in reply, relief morphing to excitement. Much as she’d needed to keep herself protected since the miscarriage, kissing this way instantly felt right, felt essential. She’d missed their sexual bond more than she’d realized.
She pulled away, pushed him until he sat back. “Stay there.”
“Stay?”
She smiled, feeling wicked and electric, so ready for this. “You’ll see.”
Hesitance tempered his expression but she was only too happy to show him how solid she felt in her body and her heart. She moved to the floor, twisted around to push the coffee table farther away, then settled between his legs. The familiar bite of grit and hardwood met her bare knees, a welcome reminder of a hundred filthy memories. Memories of what they’d lost track of these past couple weeks.
She splayed her palms over his legs, stroking from his knees to his hips and back down.
“You don’t need to…” He trailed off as his lids grew heavy, stare glazing. She warmed through to watch it.
“Of course I don’t. I want to.” She raked her nails over his hard thighs, loving the shudder that rolled through the length of his body. She went for his belt, slipping the end free of the post, pausing to rub her palm across the shape of his growing erection. He covered her hand with his, wanting to slow it or to follow its motions. She squeezed gently, earning another shiver and a tensing of that hand.