—19— Wyatt #3
He flips me over and straddles my back. I sigh as his weight presses down on me. And the warmth of his hands as they spread over my shoulder blades like hot stones both rough and smooth, treating my skin to the pleasures of the stubborn oils still on his fingertips that didn’t come off on the rag.
For as cold as he is with me most of the time, his hands tell me so much more.
How he cares.
How he devotes himself.
How he makes room for me.
Makes time for me.
Lets me in.
I wonder if I’ve truly let him in me.
I mean, other than literally.
We’ve had moments together. He’s eaten my food.
I handed him a tool or two. We even took a shower.
But we’re not exactly braiding each other’s hair.
He doesn’t involve himself in how I’m feeling, or why my parents are out of the picture.
And I haven’t had the balls to ask him about his father, who I know passed away a few years ago.
How do I even bring that up? Why does it feel like saying the wrong thing might abruptly end whatever it is we’re building here?
Is he even a talker? He doesn’t seem like it. And when I start to talk, I worry I sound too neurotic or annoying.
For as much progress as we’ve made, I wonder if saying the wrong thing could as easily shatter it all apart.
Doesn’t matter what I say with the guys when they’re over for movie night. Or when it’s me and Mindy gabbing over coffee—or at her house with her shrieking kids. Why are they always shrieking?
But with Diego, conversation flows differently.
Or not at all.
Or at times, like now, it flows in this charged silence, with him obsessed with ironing out my back with his big, warm hands.
I think I could adapt to this.
It feels just as intimate, if not more so, than any boyfriend I’ve ever had.
So why worry?
“You always been this … handy?” I ask.
His hands don’t stop, but his brain seems to for a second. “You trying to make a joke or something?”
“Well, maybe. Your hands on my back. Your hands in that car on the driveway …”
“What about yours?” he throws back. “Mr. Plant Whisperer.”
“My thumbs aren’t as green as my parents’,” I admit just as he digs into somewhere perfectly pleasant at the base of my neck. I nearly let out a whimper.
“I think you underestimate yourself,” he says.
“Do I?”
“Yeah.”
“How do you know that?”
“I think you’re capable of a lot more than you realize. I think you put yourself down all the time to make others feel better ‘bout themselves. I think—”
“You think a lot suddenly,” I tease. He goes quiet. Then I bite my lip. “You really think I … put myself down?”
“I think you could make a flower grow in a desert.”
I’m surprised for a moment by how unexpectedly beautiful a sentiment that is, coming from Diego. Then I make a face he can’t see. “But flowers grow in deserts.”
“What’re you talking about? No they don’t. It’s a desert.”
“Desert marigold. Desert lily. Brittlebush. Primrose …”
“Okay, okay.”
“Cactus blooms …”
“You know what I meant.”
“And I think you could open up a massage parlor tomorrow,” I throw right back, suppressing yet another whimper. “You’re, like, really … really good at this, by the way.”
His hands slow, like he’s thinking. “If I … didn’t do something about your neck, you’d be whining about it all night.”
“Does that mean you planned to let me hang here all night?”
“Dunno. Maybe.”
I bite my lip, excited. It’s like I’ve learned that the less he says, the more he’s saying. The thought makes my heart flutter, feeling like I’m really getting him now.
“Maybe you do the same thing,” I point out. “Putting yourself down. Unable to take a compliment without brushing it off.” I let out a sigh of pleasure. “You’re more amazing than you know.”
He says nothing back.
His hands slide down my back, massaging lower and lower.
He shifts his weight, straddling my legs now, slightly spread apart.
I fight this giddy feeling of anticipation bubbling up inside me as his hands reach the top of my ass, massaging deeper and deeper.
He’s growing braver when he touches me, like it’s less of a request for permission each time and more of an assumed ownership.
He knows I want him to touch me.
Wherever he wants.
However he wants.
He knows he’s allowed to.
Any time of day or night. Any moment he pleases.
He knows I’d say yes no matter what.
“Can I?” I ask—or rather moan, as the tips of his fingers start to tease along my crack, making my insides twist apart with eager yearning for him to be inside me again.
It’s immeasurable.
How badly I want him no matter what we’re doing.
How deeply I crave his hands all over me.
His whole essence inside of me.
Consuming me in every way a person can be consumed.
“Can you what?” he asks.
“Stay?”
His hands stop, cupping my cheeks.
Thumbs tracing my crack.
The thought sitting inside him.
Just say yes, I would beg.
But right then, his phone goes off, a text. I feel his left hand slip off of my body as he reaches for it.
Then he mumbles, “Fuck.”
I lift my head. “What is it?”
“Realtor.” He sighs. “Got a fucking showing in thirty.”