38. Claire
thirty-eight
I am almost absolutelycertain I’m stuck inside some fever dream. One that involves Nathan Harding making me come four freaking times, and then insisting that I wear his T-shirt while he sits on the floor in front of me and paints my nails.
It’s a dream. It has to be.
It’s the after that seems impossible to me.
Nathan painting my nails.
Making me a steaming mug of herbal tea, in the same blue mug that I’ve used since my first visit to his place.
Pulling his T-shirt over my head like he was tucking me into it.
Bringing me the exact brand of gummy bears that I have at school as the treat in my lunch bag.
The fact that, as soon as both of our bodies had stopped vibrating from the intensity of that last orgasm, he had brought a washcloth straight to the bedroom to take care of me? And here I thought that sort of thing only happened in romance novels. Here I am, living outside the pages.
I’ve always been the person taking care of others. I guess I missed out on what it could be like to have someone take care of me.
It’s uncomfortable.
I can admit that. It’s a feeling I’m not used to, and while my hands feel safe in his as he delicately strokes the applicator brush over my thumb, I’m itching all over to do something for him. It’s one of the reasons I insisted on doing the dishes tonight after dinner—which seems like it was light years ago. It seems, though, that dishes are about all he’ll let me lift my finger to do.
I squash that itching feeling down, doing my best to focus on the tenderness of his hands. The delicate way he holds mine, like I’m fine China. The intense focus he wears, like he’s sculpting a piece of art instead of just painting my fingernails in pale pink.
The divot between his brows is so damn cute though. Nathan isn’t soft. Not in public. Not at school. But he lets that part of himself out for me, and that thought makes the itching subside just a little.
“You’re good at this,” I say, then clear the raspiness from my throat. Nathan’s eyes darken a little as he stares up at me and pauses. “Were you a nail technician in another life?”
He smirks.
“No. I’m just bound and determined to put in one-hundred-percent effort at everything I do.”
“Is that your fancy way of saying you’re a perfectionist?”
“Did you not orgasm twice before I’d even put a finger inside you?”
Dude’s got a point. He chuckles, like he’s proud of himself.
“Let me remind you that if you’re looking to start something, sir, my nails are still wet, which means you’ll not only ruin your perfect paint job, but possibly your upholstery as well.”
He grunts, pausing the second coat on my right ring finger to shake his head, and lift his bedroom eyes to me.
“If you’re not looking to start something, I’d suggest not calling me sir. As for your hands, I have a few creative ways I could keep them up and out of my way. Believe me when I say that I’m confident I could make you come again while keeping your manicure intact.”
“Really?” I tease. “I didn’t think an old man like yourself could get it up so soon after.”
The smolder in his eyes is both a warning and a promise. His words drip like molasses, straight between my thighs. Nathan is definitely into some other things that I thought only existed in books—all “old man” jokes aside. I squirm where I sit cross-legged on the big comfy couch, then wince as I remember how he’d spanked me, and squirm some more when I remember how much I liked it. He has the audacity to smirk again as he says, “Are you going to sit still now?”
I nod, biting my lower lip.
“Good girl.”
Why is it that a simple Good girl gets me every single time? Two of the most powerful syllables in the English language, I tell you. I pant. Wiggle in my seat to find some relief between my thighs—How am I literally ready to go again?
“How did things go with the move?” he asks, his focus still trained on my nails.
“Good. Everyone came to help, so it didn’t take too long to get everything across town.”
I recount the events from the move as he finishes the second coat, only pausing for a moment when he actually leans down to blow over the tops of my fingers when he’s done. He remains cross-legged on the floor.
“And how about your parents? Are they taking it well?”
Here is where I tense. Where I’d usually pick at my nails as a way to fidget, I can’t—because Nathan painted my nails and I’ll be damned if I ruin this gift. My only two options are to stew in my discomfort or drown in Nathan’s gaze.
The moment I choose the latter, an overwhelming feeling of relief floods in. Here, with Nathan, I don’t have to drown. The pity I’ve always feared is absent. My soft, caring man stares up at me with eyes wide open and a bottle of clear coat waiting in his hands for when my nails are dry. I could cry. Instead, I do the one thing I usually avoid. I tell my truth.
“When I asked to speak with my parents the other night, it was like talking to a brick wall. I reminded them that I have my own life, that I’m a college graduate, that I’m twenty five years old, and that I have dreams of my own. They tilted their heads like they were confused, and then laid on the guilt.
“They’ve always called my ‘way with kids’ a gift. ‘This is your gift, Claire. This is what you were made to do, Claire.’ Like they’ve been gaslighting me since I was eight years old, and I only realized it when I went away to college.”
I shrug, and my eyes drop. Nathan’s stare is so intense that I fear falling down into it for too long will entrap me. He doesn’t let me run very far, though. Immediately, his hand is encased around mine—delicately enough that he can be my support without touching the soft pink polish.
“I know that I’m good with my siblings. But just because I have a ‘gift’ doesn’t mean I want to use it. I don’t want to be put into a box.”
“And you don’t belong in one either.”
I can taste the gruffness in Nathan’s voice. It’s the same texture from when he’d said, That’s right, Claire, you come for your man.
I don’t know what to do with this. The affirmation, the support from another person. I’ve barely wrapped my head around the fact that I’ve made friends who care enough to move me into a new home and get me started from the ground up. Having this man here to support me like this? It might take some time. Especially when we aren’t even supposed to be together in the first place.
But in the same breath, that man is now testing my manicure delicately with the pad of his thumb. He is sealing a clear coat over the top, because he researched how to do a manicure at home and apparently, all of the best websites told him to.
Tightness forms in my chest at the memory of how hard it was to walk away from him the first time, and at how much more severely it is going to ruin me this time. I can’t let another moment go before asking.
“What are we doing, Nathan? I thought this was against the rules.”
He pauses his painting, stiffening for a few heavy moments, before the weight of his gaze from below pins me to my seat.
“It is. But I want you too much to listen.”
He swallows, and I let that settle.
I want him too. Forget the rules. For once in my life, I’m taking what I want and damning the consequences. So, I nod. Affirming that whatever it is we’re doing, we’ll carry it out in secret. It’s a silent affirmation that thrills me to my core at the same time that a kernel of dread plants itself in my soul.
When he’s finished with my manicure, he joins me on the couch, pulls the side table in front of us, and sets up the kickstand on my Kindle case.
“Let me know when to turn the page.” I lift a brow in question. “Until your nails dry.”
And that’s how we spend the rest of the night: I read, while Nathan rests his chin on my shoulder, clicking the side of my Kindle to turn the page when I squeeze his thigh. For these moments in time, the rest of the world fades away to nothing but him and me.