Chapter Fifteen #2
He grabs the bottle of shower gel and tips some on his palm, then rubs his hands together, his eyes on mine. Then he dips his head and kisses me while he begins to soap my body.
He takes his time, skating his hands across my skin, and massaging the lather into the places where I’m coated with mud. It takes ages for him to get it all off.
“I think you’ve got it all,” I tell him about five minutes later.
“Need to make sure,” he states, sliding his hand over my belly and between my legs.
“I don’t think I had any down there,” I mumble, my breath hitching as he strokes me.
“Au contraire. You’d be amazed where it got.” He smirks, slipping his fingers down into me, and I groan, clutching hold of him as I close my eyes so I don’t fall over.
“Ahhh… stop…” I summon my willpower and push his hand away. “Seriously, this shower can be cranky in the morning. Let’s get you clean.”
“Spoilsport,” he grumbles. But he’s happy to let me start work on him.
I turn him so his back is to the spray and soak his hair, then wash it, enjoying the feel of the short strands on my fingers. Next I move to his body, and I take my time cleaning the spots of mud off his neck, arms, and face, kissing him at the same time.
I move down to his chest and spread the lather across his ribs. “Your nipples are filthy,” I inform him, circling the tips of my fingers over them.
“Really.” He rolls his eyes.
“Covered in mud. I’ll make sure they’re clean though… Oh!!!!” I squeal loudly as the water suddenly turns absolutely freezing.
“Jesus!”
We both fumble for the tap, but it’s a whole five seconds or so before we’re finally able to stop the icy-cold spray.
“Fuck me.” I scowl. “I need to get a new water heater. Talk about a passion killer.”
“Nah. Nothing could kill my passion for you.” He smiles, opens the door, and grabs the towel. I wait for him to dry himself, but to my surprise he wraps the towel around me instead and briskly rubs my arms.
I look up at him, my emotions tangling inside me.
He doesn’t notice and concentrates on drying my back and arms. I let him, swallowing hard to make sure I don’t cry.
He’s so nice to me. I can’t bear to think he might be angry with me if he finds out about the baby.
Oh, how did I get myself into this mess?
He dries down my body and gently over my stomach, and I press my lips together. Our lovemaking made a baby. A whole new person. Is that unlucky? Or is it actually an amazing, marvelous thing?
It’s impossible not to think about Caesar holding a newborn, a tender look in his eyes as he glances at me.
I swallow again, conscious of nausea rising inside me. Maybe it was the shock of the cold water, or the sharp pang of wistfulness, but it hits me fast, rushing up inside me like a geyser.
“Ohhh…” I press my fingers against my mouth, my eyes widening in alarm. “Sorry…”
“Are you okay?”
Clutching the towel around me, I push him aside, go over to the toilet, and vomit into it. Fuck. I stay put as it rises again, and at the same time I feel him pulling back my hair and his cool hand on the back of my neck.
“All right, baby,” he says.
I vomit again, embarrassed, but there’s nothing I can do about it. He tears off a few sheets of paper and hands it to me. I take it, wait until I’m sure I’m done, then straighten, wiping my mouth.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, mortified.
“Is it your head?” He cups my face and looks into my eyes. “You poor thing.”
My face flushes at the lie, and my eyes sting.
“Hey, it’s okay.” He pulls me into his arms. “You should have said you weren’t feeling well.”
“I was trying to ignore it…” I shiver.
“Come on,” he says firmly, “let’s get dry and warm you up again.”
We finish drying ourselves and make our way out into the bedroom. He makes me get in and tucks the duvet around me. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he says as he tugs on a pair of track pants.
He leaves the door open, and I see him occasionally as he moves around the kitchen. I snuggle down beneath the covers, feeling spoiled. The last time anyone did this for me, I was about fourteen. I had the flu, and my mother was fussing around me.
I check my messages while I wait, and I’m surprised to see one from Gramps. How’s the trip going? he asks. Making any inroads?
Frowning, I wince at the thought of him discovering what’s happened between me and Caesar. The fact that he’d probably approve if he thought it meant I was softening the Ashfords up makes me feel uncomfortable. But I don’t have to tell him anything about that.
I could just ignore the message, but that might look odd, too, so instead I send a short text saying it’s going well and send it, hoping that will satisfy him for a while, and put my phone down as Caesar comes back into the bedroom carrying a mug of tea, a plate of toast with butter, two Panadol, and a bottle of water.
“Here,” he says firmly, handing me the Panadol.
I’ve been trying not to take medication apart from folic acid, but I know that Panadol or paracetamol is safe to take while you’re pregnant, and I do have a bit of a headache, so I take them with a few mouthfuls of water. He fetches his own tea and toast, then slides under the duvet beside me.
We lean back on the pillows, turn a little toward one another, and crunch our toast while we sip our drinks. He’s made me fruit tea, which is also thoughtful and touching.
“Want me to close the curtains?” he asks, because the sunshine that’s slanting across the bed is dazzling.
I shake my head, though. “I’m okay. Feeling a little better.”
“Good.” He chews his toast, studying me thoughtfully.
Has it occurred to him that I tend to feel sick in the morning? He doesn’t look suspicious, though. I suppose the migraine excuse is plausible enough, for the moment anyway, especially if he’s used to his mother having them.
I lower my eyes, playing with the paper tab at the end of the tea bag. I hate lying to him.
He lifts a hand and tucks it under my chin, then lifts it so I’m looking into his eyes. I wait for him to say, What’s bothering you? Or to query what I’m hiding.
He doesn’t, though. Instead, he leans forward and kisses me. I sigh and let him, enjoying his warm, firm lips and just being close to him.
When he eventually lifts his head, he kisses my nose and moves back. “You looked sad,” he says. “Don’t be sad.”
“I’m not.” But I am, and he can obviously sense it.
“All right,” he says, picking up another piece of toast. “Top five movies. And go.”
That makes me smile. He’s trying to cheer me up.
“Okay. Number five… Gravity with Sandra Bullock.”
“Oh, really? Would you put that above something like Interstellar?”
We discuss our favorite movies and argue good-naturedly about what should take the top spot, and when we’re done and I’ve eaten all my toast, he takes the plates and mugs out to the kitchen before coming back and pulling me into his arms.
“I’m so sorry about earlier,” I say, snuggling up to him. “I was having such fun, washing you.”
He chuckles, stroking my back. “I should have listened to your warnings about the hot water.”
“Sometimes I think the cottage does it on purpose, for a joke.”
He smiles, then lifts my chin and kisses me. “We’ve got all day,” he murmurs. “And anyway… I’m just enjoying being with you. I don’t mind what we do.”
“So… you don’t want to have sex again?” I tease.
His lips twist. “I didn’t say that. But let’s wait a while and make sure your headache has gone. Let’s do another top five.”
“Okay. Top five sex positions?”
That makes him chuckle, and I smile. He looks completely different when he laughs, all his cares and worries momentarily disappearing.
I don’t want to make him cynical or angry or bitter.
I want to be the one to make him happy all the time.
I just wish I could think of another way to do it that didn’t involve lying to him.