Chapter 29
CHAPTER 29
WREN
Ellis is doing a potty dance.
I’m sure there’s a better way to describe it, but that is all that comes to mind at the moment. A very large, very grown man’s version of a potty dance.
He alternates lifting his knees and slightly crossing them, sputtering out a litany of curses. His eyes are still clenched shut, and his hands continuously ball and spread at his sides.
“Oh no!” Bernie yells, fluttering over here in all her linen. I guess she said aur naur again after all. “Did you not wear the gloves?!” she asks Ellis, a horrified look on her face.
Ellis turns toward her voice, but he’s angled about a foot off in the wrong direction. “The gloves weren’t in the instructions!” he says helplessly.
“Ah, fuckin’ hell, mate. You touched your eyes, I take it?” says Bob.
Ellis pivots toward me. “Wren,” he says, a deep, broken growl. Oh, I’ve got to get him out of here.
“Mate, you didn’t touch your doodle, did you?” Bob adds.
“The gloves were for the peppers! You don’t want those touching your skin!” Bernie cries.
“No shit,” Ellis says through his teeth.
The maid of honor lets out a loud sob from her chair, the bride and another bridesmaid crouched in front of her and deep in conversation. One of the groomsmen is peeing off the balcony. I keep hold of Ellis’s elbow so he knows I’ve got him. He keeps stretching a palm in front of his crotch like he’s dying to grab it. The skin around his eyes is an angry red.
The wine guy comes bounding into the kitchen, bottles held aloft in his hands. “Found it! I’ve got the Riesling and the perfect chardonnay!” he declares.
I turn back when I hear the unmistakable sound of vomiting. Maid of honor has finally begun to purge her demons, directly down the front of the bride’s dress. Bride stands up on shaky legs, then runs to the edge of the balcony and retches next.
Some of the samosas start to smoke, and Bob runs over to the fryer. I grab ahold of Bernie with my free hand and hold her in place before she can flee.
“What do I do about him?” I ask urgently, nodding up at Ellis.
“Ice cream!” calls Bob over the smoke detector that starts going off. For a second, I think he’s said ass cream and I am about to rip into him about his ass not being the issue. “Gotta flush his eyes out with water, but ice cream will break it down off the skin!” This time, I hear it through the accent.
Bernie scuttles over to the freezer and flings it open, grabs a carton, and lobs it at me.
“Let’s go,” I say to Ellis, tucking his hand in mine.
“No!” He rears back. “What if it’s still on my hands?” he says. And right then and there, it’s as if whatever piece of my heart I was trying to reserve is slingshot straight from my chest. The fact that he can stand there with his dick and eyeballs on fire, liquid streaking down his face from the corners of his eyes and his nostrils over his mustache, and still think of me…
He can have whatever he wants from me again. Everything is his.
“Here, honey, hold on to my shirt, then.” I put it in his hand and lead him away.
We make it safely out of the house and down the stair pathway we came in that leads into the vineyards. We make it about a quarter of the way before he has to stop.
“Holy hell , this fucking hurts, Wren,” he says dizzily. He tries to open his eyes and hisses, more tears spilling free. He briefly braces his hands on his knees before straightening again, shaking out his legs one at a time and squatting like he’s trying to get air up his jeans. The condensation from the ice cream is streaming down my arm.
“Come on, honey,” I say gently. “Let’s get back to the room as quick as we can.”
He lets out an awful whimper. “I can’t believe that this is the reason you’re saying those words to me right now,” he says.
I put the end of my shirt in his hand again and march on, determination lengthening my stride. We cut over a hill straight to the enclosed back patio of our cottage. I have to rifle through his pockets for the key to unlock it, then shut the slatted wooden door behind us. When I turn on the water for the outdoor bath, he flinches.
“It’s just water so you can flush out your eyes,” I explain. I guide him to his knees and slowly push his head beneath the running faucet, rubbing circles on his back while he tries to blink into the water. After a few rounds, I ask, “Any better?”
He blinks rapidly, shaking his head. “Not really. I gotta do something about my dick, though,” he pants.
My entire chest aches at seeing him this vulnerable, knowing it’s killing him. “Here, stand up. No, don’t touch anything. Let me,” I say.
His hands hover out at his sides, his jaw working. I peel off his shirt first. Feel my entire body flush at the sight of his naked torso. His nostrils flare. “I can’t believe this shit,” he whispers. “I cannot believe I don’t get to watch you undress me right now.”
Because he’s said it so mulishly, and because there’s nothing to be done for it, I aim for humor. “There were easier ways to get out of the class early, you know. You didn’t have to go through all this trouble.”
A soft snort is his only response.
“Are you okay if I take your pants off?”
He tries to open his eyes and winces again. “I don’t think I’ve ever been less okay, Wren,” he says miserably. “Oh, fuckfuckfuck, it’s worse.”
I make fast work of undoing his belt. “It’s getting worse because you’re getting hard.” Very, very quickly. Impressively quickly. The metal of his belt clangs against the wooden deck at our feet.
“Please. Don’t say hard ,” he says, toeing off his boots and socks. “Actually, shit, nothing’s gonna help.” He gets visibly more frantic. His eyes dart around rapidly behind his lids, his hands flailing at his sides, and I know—I know that it doesn’t speak well of me as a person that I let myself take a good look at him, but when I do, I feel my own sort of throbbing burn, from my head down to the soles of my feet.
I pick up the half-melted ice cream carton and stick his right hand into it. He immediately scoops some out and brings it to his other palm, where he hesitates in front of where he’s gone fully erect.
“I forgot…” I say to myself, my voice distant. I forgot how big, thick, and built he is, everywhere. That impossibly wide chest. “You’re a little hairier than I remember,” I remark. Still not gray anywhere other than around his temples, though. His hands rub together, vanilla bean melting through his fingers, but they don’t make any move to soothe his grievously hard cock.
“Wren,” he says raggedly, head shaking side to side and his entire body flexing. “I swear on everything. I swear on my life I wouldn’t ask, but I’m s-scared to touch it in case there’s anything left on my hands.”
I should consider hesitating. I don’t. I reach in and wet three fingers in the ice cream and carefully slide them along his flesh. A noise from somewhere deep inside him echoes through his bones. His skin feels like hot silk here. I tip the heavy length of him up more so I can spread some around the whole thing. “Thank god it wasn’t rocky road or something, am I right?” I say, lightheaded.
He rumbles out a laugh that cuts off in a whine. “It’s helping, at least.” He swallows heavily, shifting his weight on his feet, hands dripping ice cream onto the deck. I’m careful not to pump him, and still he’s… he’s painfully solid against my fingertips, a bead of moisture at the tip.
“Ellis, you have to try to soften, I think.” My swallow is audible.
“I’m trying,” he says, then tries to slit open an eye and promptly shuts it again. “But I can still hear you and smell you, and I think my body just, ah fuck”—he grimaces as his cock twitches eagerly—“knows you.”
It’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen, his shaft glistening with melted ice cream. I can’t decide if I want to dissolve into a fit of hilarity, hug him and comfort him, or fall to my knees and lick him clean.
“Here, get in the bath and wash off while I look up what else we can do,” I say. I help him step in, and he lowers himself into the tepid water. “We’ll do another round with the ice cream if we need to.”
He grips the edge of the tub stiffly, big body squeezed in tight. “Could you just… Would you mind just leaving me here for a bit?” he asks. “Alone. I think I’ll be able to calm down if I don’t know you’re right there.”
I mark the hard set of his mouth and the lines between his brows. His still-clenched eyes and his white knuckles on the lip of the tub. It’s clear how much he hates this, being exposed and vulnerable and not in control this way. But it’s more than his need to calm down. He wants to hide, too.
“All right,” I reply quietly, then walk back inside and sit on the bed.
I google remedies for “pepper dick and fingers,” which, unsurprisingly, yields mixed results. Once I figure out the correct terminology is “capsaicin burn,” I’m on the right track.
I try not to let myself be hurt or bothered by him wanting to conceal himself—his pain from me. I’d like to not make it more meaningful than it is.
I do, anyway.
It’s just that it’s aggravating how hypocritical this is right now. Every time we take a chance and lean into trusting each other, we come out stronger by the end of it. It’s pulling away, withholding our hurts that destroyed us before. Being too damn careful . Since I let myself commit to this trip and its objectives, I haven’t withheld much of anything.
And I get it. I do. He’s in pain. I can practically hear the thoughts churning in his head. He’s put in so much effort to plan this, to make it go just right. He’s been committing, too, but he’s also been in the driver’s seat. Today has been out of his control since we checked in, and now things have gone awry, and he’s trying to take back what he can.
Well, fuck that. We haven’t come this far just to come this far.
I dig into my toiletry bag to find the bottle I need and walk back out onto the porch.
He’s managed to get his eyes open, now, and cuts me a wary, bloodshot look.
“Getting better?” I ask.
He nods. “Getting there.”
“Let me help,” I say.
He closes his eyes like he’s stung and lets his head fall back, exposing the long lines of his strong throat. “Let me hold on to a shred of my pride, Wren. Please.”
“No.”
Now his eyes fly open and find me again. I untie my top and let it fall away. He whispers a curse.
“Oil apparently helps break down the chemical from the peppers, too,” I explain, nipples tightening under his stare.
“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice rough with longing. “You won’t fit.”
I let my smile heat. “What’d you say to me the first time I said you wouldn’t fit? We’ll make it work.” I peel down my skirt and panties and step out of them.
“Wren.”
“I’ll go slow. I’ll try not to make it hurt. If I hurt you, tell me and I’ll stop. I think those are all things you said to me, too.”
“Fuck, baby.” He’s breathing heavily now, running a wet palm over his mustache as he tries to make room for me to step into the tub, water trickling over the edge in the movement. I stand between his knees and watch him drag his gaze over every inch of me slowly, like he’s committing me to memory again. Some of my bravery wavers when I kneel, as I try to be graceful about it and end up needing to scootch and wriggle closer to him, wedging myself between his legs.
He stays utterly still aside from his chest rising and falling. The water licks up and retreats below his belly button with each exhale, the proud head of his cock resting there, too. I squirt some of my shower oil in my palm and ask again. “Let me help?”
“All right,” he rasps.
I let my hand slide beneath the water and lean forward to kiss his neck. Feel his hitching sound against my lips. I feel myself tremble a little, too. The oil seems to stay on my hand beneath the water, but I keep it careful and slow, letting my fingers slip against him gently. I catch the corner of his mouth with mine, wrap my hand around his cock, and give him one long, gentle tug. “Okay?”
“Yes,” comes out of him with a soft, graveled gasp. He idly thumbs one of my nipples.
“Ah-ah-ah,” I chide, which makes him go back to holding on to the tub. I’m sure he assumes I’m worried about any residue burning me, but I simply need to take care of him for once. Only him. I hold him a little tighter and notice that the smooth slide from the oil’s faded away. “Come inside with me?” I lean back and ask.
His heavy-lidded stare moves across my face, a hand lifting instinctively before he puts it back down. I wipe a droplet of water from his mustache. “I don’t think we can,” he says, a little mournful.
“I know,” I say. Even aching like I am, I’m not brave enough to test having him inside me. “I have another idea.”
I feel his soft grin like a twinge in my chest. “All right,” he says.
I grab the shower oil before he lets me lead him out of the tub, back inside the little cottage shed, a trail of wet footprints in our wake.
The distance from the back door to the bed is nearly nonexistent. I turn and sit at the edge of the mattress, bringing him closer to me by his hips and holding his gaze with mine.
“I thought of something we’ve never done.” I grab the oil and let some dribble down the center of my chest, everything cinching tight in my stomach when his mouth falls open and his thighs lightly quake. “Come here.”
He stumbles closer and cups the base of my skull in his hands, weaving into my hair and pulling so he can bend down and kiss me. The motion makes his cock draw a path down my front, and I let out a moan into his mouth.
He keeps one of his hands in my hair and watches himself when he grinds back up, where I squeeze him tight between my breasts.
“God, Wren,” he says, still glued to the sight. I can’t look away from him watching, or from the lust and the adoration on his face. I keep pushing, plucking at my nipples when he thrusts up against me again. My hips writhe against the sheets, and his grip in my hair curls tighter, his thrusts picking up. “Squeeze me, baby,” he begs, sliding over slick, warm skin, the muscles in his thighs straining. I lose any awareness of time, marveling at his face and his closeness again. At the cadence of his breath and the friction of him hot and hard on the skin over my chest. “Can I?” he asks with a rough gasp.
“Yes. Make a fucking mess,” I say, repeating his words back to him from last night.
His brow folds in amazement and relief right before he pulls back and comes with a truncated groan, some landing on my chin below the corner of my lip. I wait for his eyes before I swipe my tongue across it, which makes his neck arch back with another deeply satisfied, harsh sound. He rocks against me once more before he bends to kiss me again. “Thank you,” he says, kissing my forehead after nipping at my lips. “Let me grab a towel, I… I got a little in your hair, too, I think. Sorry.”
I wrap my hand around his wrist, where he’s still cupping my head in his big palm. He brings a thumb around to trace along my jaw, and I couldn’t care less if it ends up burning there. “It’s okay,” I say, softly laughing. I feel like my whole body is humming, like I needed this as much as he did.
We end up in the teeny indoor shower together. I kiss the tender pink skin around his eyes, and he washes my hair, laughs slipping out of us and our hands lathering over one another. We keep the kissing and touching as chaste as we can manage, but I still feel like an exposed nerve ending by the time we towel off.
I have no idea what time it is or where my phone might be, but the sunset shines rosy orange shapes through the gaps in the blinds as I pull on one of Ellis’s shirts. Something about the feel of it on my bare skin and his scent in my nose threatens to make me cry. I should manage my wet hair, but I catch him looking at me from the bed, bare-chested and smiling gently in the sherbet light, and I decide I’d rather slide in beside him now.
Even as I tuck myself into the crook of his shoulder, he keeps the hand at my back pressed to the sheet or his shirt, careful not to touch bare skin.
“Does anything still hurt?” I ask.
“My fingertips feel a little raw and my eyes still sting, but…” He sighs. “Everything else is better.”
I grin against his chest. Everything really is better in this moment with him.
Hope, hope, hope goes that pulse again, desperately hoping nothing will change. Or that everything already has? I’m not sure either way, and I fall asleep happy.