Chapter Seventeen
Henry
Someone murmurs in my ear, “I’m going to take a shower,” rousing me from the depths of a dark slumber.
“Mmph.” Still in the mists of dreamland, I figure I’ve conjured up the soft skin and low voice of the woman I love. I imagine I feel the person move off the bed and hear the bathroom door closing.
Then my eyes spring open. Juliette!
I blink a few times, trying to reboot my brain. I’m lying on my front, facing the window. Light streams through the gap in the curtains, a bright buttery yellow, so it’s past sunrise—six-thirty maybe? Seven? I lift my head and turn it to the other side. The bed is empty, but the indentation in the pillow and the sheet are a sign that I didn’t dream her.
I push up onto my elbows, pull her pillow toward me, and bury my face in it. It smells of her perfume and the sweet scent that is all her.
Jeez, I was so tired last night, and inebriated. I can only remember about sixty percent of everything that happened, and I have a feeling my performance was distinctly less than average. It’s Huxley’s fault, plying me with whisky. Well, I’m not drinking today. Have some willpower, dude.
I debate whether to wait until she comes out, then decide the opportunity to savor a wet, slippery Juliette is too good to be missed. I rise, yawn, stretch, collect my phone and—with a smirk—a condom, then go over to the bathroom door. I can hear the shower going. And she’s humming. That’s a good sign.
I knock, open the door a crack, and say, “Can I come in?”
“Yes,” she calls back. “I’m in the shower.”
I go in. She’s in the cubicle, her body visible as a light-brown shadow through the steamy glass walls. I look at myself in the mirror and wince. My stubble is too untidy to be anything close to designer. My eyes are slits. My hair is all over the place.
“I need to pee,” I mumble. “Do you mind?”
She laughs. “Fire away, sunshine. As long as you don’t mind me watching.” She clears a patch of steam, and her brown eyes appear, lighting with amusement as she spots my hair. “Feeling a little hungover, are we?”
Deciding it’s too late for pride, I leave my phone and the condom on the sink, lean on the tiles behind the toilet, and pee. I hear her laugh as it goes on forever, and sigh. When I’m done, I flush the toilet, wash my hands, then pick up my phone. I bring up Spotify, choose The Cure’s Friday I’m in Love, and set it playing. Then I walk over to the shower and open the door.
“It’s occupied,” she says, giving me a mischievous smile.
“That’s the least of my worries.” I get in, forcing her to move into the corner of the cubicle, and close the door behind me.
“There’s no room,” she complains, although by the way her eyes have widened, I don’t think she’s bothered.
“We’ll just have to stand very close together.” I tip my head back under the spray and soak my hair, then look down at her.
“Ooh,” she says. “You’re all shiny.”
“So are you.” Her smooth light-brown skin glistens as water runs down it. “Have you washed your hair yet?” She shakes her head. “Can I do it?”
She smiles. “If you want.”
I tip some of the complementary hotel shampoo onto my hand, smooth it onto her hair, and massage it in. She hums to the music as I glide my fingers through the strands, and then I turn her so her back is to the spray and rinse her hair clean.
“My turn,” she says when I’m done. “You’ll have to bend a bit.”
I dip my head so she can wash my hair, then let her rinse it, enjoying the movement of her fingers across my scalp.
Afterward, I hold her hand in mine and slide the other arm around her waist, and we dance to the song together beneath the water, both singing the lyrics. She laughs, and my spirits lift in a way they haven’t for a long time.
“Taku toi kahurangi,” I tell her. It means ‘my precious jewel.’ I kiss her ear. “Me te mea ko Kōpū ka rere i te pae.” ‘Your beauty is like Venus rising above the horizon.’
She lifts her face, and I lower my lips and kiss her. When I lift my head, her eyes are glistening.
“Tum meri zindagi ho aur meri jaan tum men basti hai,” she says.
“Is that Hindi?”
She nods. “You are my life and my soul resides in you.” She smiles. “It’s a bit soppy.”
“I like soppy.”
“I can see that.”
I stroke up her spine, and she sighs, slides her arms around me, and rests her cheek on my shoulder. The music changes to Elton John’s Rocket Man—it just happened to be the next random track on my liked songs playlist. As we continue to dance, and then we sing the chorus together, I carry on stroking her back. Up to the nape of her neck. Across her shoulders. Along her arms. Back to her shoulders. Down her back. Across her hips.
She draws circles on my back, across my shoulder blades, down my spine, exploring the lines of the muscles. It is sexy—she’s wet and naked, so there would be something wrong with me if it didn’t turn me on—but there’s also something therapeutic about touching each other in this way. We’re getting to know one another. I explore the tiny hollow at the base of her spine. The way her figure curves inwards above her hips to her waist. My thumb finds the small mole on her ribs beneath her left breast, and then a few moments later the other one on her shoulder. She touches the scar on my hip that I got when I came off my motorbike in my early twenties.
My stomach rumbles, and she laughs.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m starving.”
“You’re always starving.”
“True.”
“I’ve never met a man who eats as much as you do and still manages to stay trim.”
“I have a healthy appetite.” I nuzzle her ear.
“There’s no time for that,” she scolds.
“There’s always time for that.” I cup her face and kiss her, and she sighs, opening her mouth to accept my tongue. She tastes minty—she’s cleaned her teeth. She gives a soft moan, which sends hairs—and everything else—rising across my body.
I kiss her for a long time, my hands skating over her body, and for the first time I stroke her breasts. When I tease her nipples with my thumbs, they tighten and glisten like wet pebbles in the ocean, and I bend to suck them, trying different pressures until she clenches her hands in my hair and exclaims, “Oh!”
Fired up now, I move her into the corner of the cubicle, and she gasps as I back her up against the cool glass. I kiss down between her breasts, lower onto my knees, and follow the trails of water over her tummy and the soft skin of her mound. Lifting one of her legs over my shoulder, I slip my tongue down into her, and her long, breathy exhale fills me with joy.
“Henry,” she whispers, “oh my God…”
As I begin to arouse her with my tongue, I bring up a hand to join in the fun, moving my fingers beneath her. She parts readily for me, already swollen and slippery, and, palm up, I slide two fingers inside her, curving them toward me and pressing gently to find her G-spot. The clench of her fingers in my hair tells me when I’ve found the target, and I massage it as I continue to flick my tongue over her clit.
It doesn’t take long for her to reach the point where her breathing becomes ragged and her legs start to tremble. After withdrawing my fingers, I get to my feet, open the cubicle door, and retrieve the condom from the sink.
“Oh, you came prepared,” she says, watching me tear off the wrapper and toss it away, come back in, and roll the condom on.
“Like I’d expect us to get in the shower and be all wet and slippery and not have sex.” I spin a finger in the air. “Hands on the glass.”
“Seriously? There’s not enough room—”
I take her by the shoulders, turn her around, and place her hands on the glass wall, then tap her foot with mine. “Spread ’em, girl.”
She widens her stance, mumbling something. I move until my back is against the glass, pull her with me so she’s bending more at the waist, then guide the tip of my erection into her. It takes a bit of maneuvering to get the angle, but eventually I push forward and slide slowly into her.
“Ahhh…” Her hands curl into fists on the tiles, so I stop and let her adjust.
“All right, baby girl?” I stroke her back, then around her ribs to her breasts and tug her nipples.
She groans and moves her hips, coating me with her moisture, then pushing back so I slide into her a little more. Letting her do it at her own pace, I continue to caress her, enjoying the sensation of her silky skin beneath my fingertips as gradually she impales herself on me, until our bodies are touching, and I’m right up to the hilt.
“Ohhh…” She shudders. “Wow.”
“Good girl,” I tell her, bringing my hands down to hold her hips. “I’ll take over from here.” I pull almost out, then thrust in again, and she groans.
Turned on and fired up, I set up a fast pace, and Juliette can’t do much except hang on for the ride. She leans her forearms on the glass to steady herself, and I lose myself in her soft, wet body, only half conscious of the water spray pouring over us, filling the air with clouds of steam.
At first she lets me lead, her body a little tense, but gradually she relaxes and throws herself into it. She pushes back against me, and I slide a hand around her hips and find her clit, then circle the pad of my middle finger over it as I continue to thrust.
It doesn’t take long, only a few minutes, until we’re both panting. I hold her hips again and thrust hard… ah jeez, I’m so close… come on Juliette… and she lowers her own hand between her legs, which I love, and arouses herself until eventually she cries out and clenches around me. I give in to the climax I’ve been struggling to hold onto, and come hard, driving us both over the edge, our bodies locking together and turning to stone for a few moments before we both gasp and go limp.
Her legs tremble, and I quickly slide an arm around her waist to catch her before she falls.
“Careful.” I withdraw, turn her, and hold her tightly.
“My legs are all wobbly.”
“Mmm. Mine too. Come on.” I turn off the shower, grab a towel, then lead her out. After getting rid of the condom, I wrap my arms around her and hold her as I gently rub her skin with the towel until she’s dry. Then I lower her onto the toilet seat and towel her hair until it stops dripping.
“You okay?” I ask, lifting her face so I can look into her eyes.
She nods. Her eyes are huge.
I kneel down before her and cup her face. “Are you sure?”
She smiles. “I’m fine. It’s just… that was a first! Kind of blew me away.” Her gaze searches mine, her eyes filled with wonder, and then she lowers her lashes, slightly bashful.
She’s never had shower sex? I’m puzzled, but I don’t want to ask her about it. I don’t want discussion about Cam and what they used to do to become a part of our life. Maybe spur-of-the-moment sex like that put too much pressure on him, and he was unable to perform.
“Is there a comb in there?” she asks, gesturing at the box of complimentary items.
I extract one in a paper sheath and pass it to her, and she begins to comb the tangles from her hair while I dry myself. When I’m done, I tuck the towel around my waist and start running hot water into the hand basin. I splash some onto my face to open up the pores, smooth on some shaving foam, then take out my razor and begin to shave.
After a few scrapes, conscious she’s not said anything, I glance at her. She’s finished combing her hair, and she’s now watching me.
I rinse the razor. “You all right?”
She nods. “Just admiring the view.”
I smile and draw the razor up my neck again. “You like what you see?”
“Very much.” She gets up and walks to stand behind me, then draws her fingers up my arm. “I hadn’t realized you’d taken this all the way up.”
I look at the kirituhi—which literally means ‘skin art’—or the tattoo that curls up my arm to my shoulder. She traces a finger over the manawa or heart lines that represent my life journey, and the koru—the curled silver fern symbols—that represent my whakapapa—my genealogy. The she examines the other patterns—the pakati, like diamonds of a dog-skin cloak, which are representative of warriors, battles, courage, and strength; the unaunahi, which are fish scales that represent abundance and health; and the figure of the manaia, or spiritual guardian.
“It’s beautiful,” she says. She has a similar one, although it’s much smaller, and just on her forearm. She touches the largest koru at the top of mine. “Does this represent your father?”
I nod and continue shaving, moving up to my cheeks.
“Will you tell me about him?”
I wash the razor in the water. “What would you like to know?”
“What was his name?”
I shave carefully around my upper lip. “Edward.”
“West?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s where your connection to George Henry West comes from?”
“Yeah.” George—whose Māori name was Kāi Te Rakiāmoa—was the first pilot of Māori descent to join the Royal New Zealand Air Force in 1936.
“Do you mind talking about him?”
“Dad?”
She nods.
I rinse the razor again. “There’s not much to say.”
She slides her arms around my waist and kisses my shoulder. “I have a feeling that’s not true. I know he died in a boating accident, but I think there’s more to it than that. I’d like you to tell me the rest. But I understand if you’d rather not.”
I pause. Then I finish the last few strokes, empty the water, and rinse the sink as I think about how much to tell her. I turn and rest my butt on the unit and dab my face with the towel while she watches me.
As a rule, I’m a lone wolf. I don’t talk about stuff. Many Māori are close-knit, and they deal with problems together, but I’ve never been like that. As much as I love my family, I cope with my problems on my own; I always have.
But that was part of the issue with my relationship with Shaz. She said I was too closed off to her; that I didn’t talk to her enough. And I don’t want to start off my relationship with Juliette—if there is going to be one—the same way. It doesn’t come naturally, but I do want to talk to her more.
I take a deep breath and say, “If I tell you all of it, you have to promise me not to tell anyone else.”
Her brow furrows. “Why?”
“Do you promise?”
“Of course.”
“I haven’t told anyone else this.”
She stares at me. “Not Shaz?”
“Nope. No one.”
“Okay. I promise. Of course I won’t tell anyone if you don’t want me to.”
Despite her vow, I’m loath to talk. It’s not a pretty story, and I’m not sure whether it’s going to make her question her promise not to say anything. But I’ve promised now, and I discover, with some surprise, that I want to confide in her.
“Do you need to rush off?” I ask.
“Not till ten. I’m meeting Gaby.”
It’s only seven thirty. “Come on,” I say. “Why don’t we finish getting ready, order some breakfast, and make a coffee, and then I’ll tell you everything?”
Leaving her to dry her hair, I go out and pull on a tee and a pair of track pants. Then, after checking what she’d like, I ring room service and order a continental breakfast for two, including two lattes from the barista. It’s going to be around thirty minutes before it arrives, though, so in the meantime I make us a couple of coffees with the machine in the room.
Just as I’m adding milk, she comes out, fresh-faced and beautiful. “I’ll have to go back to finish getting ready for the rehearsal,” she says. “Hopefully nobody will knock on either of our doors to check on us!”
She obviously doesn’t want anyone to know about us yet. Our relationship feels like newly wet cement. I want to write my name in it, so everyone can see at a glance that she’s mine now, but it’s not what she wants, and I’m just going to have to wait until she’s ready.
“Can I borrow a tee?” she asks after.
“Sure.” I watch her lift a couple out of my suitcase, and then she pulls on my black Alice in Chains shirt. It falls past her bottom, the sleeves coming to her elbows. I’ll never be able to wear it again without thinking of her.
She sits on the sofa, and I think I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as the sight of her, backlit by the rising sun, sitting in my tee shirt, with her gorgeous brown hair tumbling around her shoulders. She begins to braid it loosely into one plait, her fingers threading the strands automatically the way women do, and she secures the end with an elastic, then lets it fall over one shoulder.
I put our coffees on the table and sit opposite her, elbows on my knees, hands loosely linked, conscious that I’m about to open up to her, and a little nervous about it. She observes me and says, “You look younger today. Without your suit, all ruffled and baby-faced.”
I run a hand through my hair, then stroke my smooth jaw. “And I was thinking that I’ve never seen you without your bindi. You look like Hinemoa.”
“Haere mai,” she sings, which means ‘welcome’, widening her eyes and making the fluttering hand movement called wiri that Māori women do, which symbolizes shimmering waters or a breeze moving the leaves of a tree. It gives me goosebumps.
She smiles. Then she tips her head to the side. “Are you okay? I’m thrilled that you want to talk, but if you’re worried about it, you don’t have to tell me, you know.”
“I do want to talk. I’m not used to it, that’s all, and it doesn’t come naturally.” I have a sip of coffee. Where to start?