I hand her the bath salts, and she pours some in the water.
“Mmmm.” She inhales slowly. “These smell amazing. Lavender?” She picks the bottle up and squints at its label. “Lavender vanilla. Even better.”
I swallow, forcing a smile. “So—tonight. My cousin is having the party here tonight. You want to go somewhere else?”
“Do you?”
“It’s your choice. You’re my guest.”
She splashes me. “Get in the tub with me. We’ll both keep our hands to ourselves. We’ll just talk like we’re friends.”
I arch a brow at her, not sure if I believe we can manage. I know I shouldn’t get in, but of course, I do. I step out of my boxer-briefs, set my robe aside, and sink into the giant tub across from her.
“I think this is the first request I’ve gotten to get into a bath with a woman.”
She splashes me. And then she wants to wash my hair. When she’s finished, and I’m feeling hot and drunk from relaxation, she asks questions. Lots of questions.
How old was I when I threw my first party? (Thirteen—at boarding school).
How old was I when I lost my virginity? (Also thirteen—and also at school).
What’s my favorite food? (Lamb chops).
Favorite candy? (Butterscotch).
Favorite band? (Rolling Stones).
Favorite season? (Fall).
Favorite high school memory? (Covert whiskey shots in my room at school with Dec and a few other guys).
Favorite animal? (Elephant).
“Wow, really?”
I smile. “Really. Why?”
“I don’t know. I thought you’d say the cheetah or a tiger or something.”
“Elephants are smart. They’re empathetic.”
“Are they?” she asks.
“Yeah. They’re really beautiful animals. You should meet one sometime.”
Lucy gets a good laugh out of that. By the time we get out of the bath, my hands and feet look like prunes, and I’ve told Lucy what feels like almost everything about myself—except the one thing that I can’t.
TWENTY-FIVE Lucy
“Favorite book?”
I started this massive question and answer session as a way of working my way toward asking if he’s ever had a pregnancy scare. So I can learn how best to bring up our pregnancy reality.
I don’t think before I ask his favorite book.
His eyes are on mine, but when I ask the question, he shifts his gaze down to the surface of the water.
“I don’t really know,” he says, looking up into my eyes after a moment. “I recently started using Audible. I like political thrillers I think. And books about space.”
“Space?”
He nods. “Like outer space and space ships.”
“Oh—nonfiction?”
“Yeah.”
That makes me grin. “That’s pretty dorky, party boy.”
He lifts his brows. “And what do you like, Lucille?”
As he asks, he stretches his leg out so he can rub the outside of my thigh with his foot.
“I like romance. Sometimes mystery. Women’s fiction. Sometimes even sci-fi or spec fiction. I’ve been reading as an escape since I was little. Concord is so tiny, there wasn’t much to do.”
He nods, and I feel comfortable enough to ask something I’ve been wondering. “Is dyslexia genetic? Like…does your father have it?”
He shakes his head.
“Did your mom?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t really…know that much about her,” he says with obvious difficulty.
“Damn. I’m sorry, Liam.”
He inhales slowly. Lets his breath out. “At boarding school, I had tutors. I did math and science with everyone else, but they had a bullshit story why for English and history and things, I studied alone, or with Dec. I got accepted into Oxford because of who I am. I didn’t really have the grades. I stayed there two semesters before…” He shakes his head. “There aren’t enough tutors in the world.”
“But then…the apps. You taught yourself to make them. Amazing.”
“It’s not unusual,” he says coolly.
“It’s not? How many successful apps do you think there are, Liam?”
“Between two and three dozen, at a given time.”
I shift in the water. “Did it take you long? To teach yourself?”
He shrugs. “It’s just math.”
I snort. “I can do math. I can’t make apps.”
“Are you trying to make me feel better about not being able to read?” Maybe I look surprised, because he lifts his eyebrows.
I spend half a heartbeat fumbling for a reply before settling on a lame-ass, “No.”
He splashes his face with water. He spends so long massaging his temples, water dripping off his chin, hand covering his face, I realize he’s embarrassed…or upset.
“I can’t swallow pills.”
He looks up—clearly confused.
“Well, I mean, I can. There’s nothing wrong with my throat. But I’m scared to. I got choked on a vitamin when I was a little kid and ever since then, I just…don’t do pills. Also, you were my first Big O in years. It helped me get my mojo back.”
His eyebrows arch, and I’m not sure how to read his face. He gives me a skeptical look, and I figure he’s going to ask about the orgasm. Instead he says, “Are you telling me these things to make me feel better, Lucy?”
I feel my face flush. “Did it work?”
He laughs, and it’s a helpless kind of laugh. “That’s nice of you,” he says as he scoots closer to me. His hands run up my forearms, light and gentle. “Why are you so nice?” he whispers.
“I don’t know. Because you are? I’m just reciprocating.”
His lips find mine, and before I know it, I’m reciprocating that as well.
He sits me on the tub’s side and kneels between my legs, licking my pussy with so much zeal, my cries echo off the walls. When he’s finished, he picks me up and carries me to his bed, where he tucks me in and stands there, naked, dripping, staring at me.
“I don’t make a habit of this,” he says quietly.
“Of screwing around with women who don’t reciprocate? Because I gladly will…”
His lips twitch. “Of letting women in my bed.”
I snort, and his hand closes around one of the thick bed posts. “I mean my bed. Here in my room.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s mine.”
“Not big on sharing?” I ask.
“No.” His lips form a thin line. He tilts his head, regarding me. “Did you plan this, Lucy?”
“Did I plan what? My dramatic bedroom coup?”
He swallows. Shakes his head. He gathers his hair into his hand. I see his shoulders rise a little as he takes a bigger breath.
“You’re putting me off-balance.” He snatches the covers off me, his eyes perusing my body in a way that can only be described as proprietary.
“Same to you, Liam.”