36. Amanda
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
AMANDA
Ilie in the dark master suite, staring at the ceiling fan chopping through the humid air. Beyond the wall, water rushes through the pipes. To my right, light spills beneath the bathroom door—unlocked.
Eric kissed me at the waterfall. It wasn’t tentative, but there was also no hunger. And I wanted his hunger—not even for sex but… for me. So I know he’s as ravenous as I am for him.
I roll onto my side and look out at the sycamores swaying beyond the window. For weeks, I imagined his return. I never expected intimacy to be a given, but I also never imagined him standing up to his father, kissing me, then spending the rest of the evening keeping a careful distance.
My hand drifts across the quilt to the empty side of the bed.
The sheets are cool, and don’t smell at all of him.
I retrace every moment of the day, searching for something I missed.
Maybe this isn’t about his body at all. Maybe he just doesn’t want me that way.
I scrub a hand over my face—tired of maybes and uncertainty.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I push back the covers. The floorboards creak under my weight, and, without knocking, I walk into the bathroom. My pulse thunders in my chest, and my blood whooshes at my temples.
Eric turns. Water streams from his hair, the damp strands hanging just below his shoulders.
The frosted strip across the shower door hides his middle.
Droplets track over his chest, sliding over the ink on his skin—my initial branded on him—while steam curls through the air.
The sight makes me bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t rub my thighs.
“Amanda.” My name on his lips syphons the air from my lungs.
I pull my shirt off, then my shorts. Slower, I unhook my bra and let it fall from my breasts.
A gasp comes through above the streaming water.
Finally, I slide my panties down my legs, and stand there bare, the strands of my own hair brush against my nipples, covering them but also making the pebble with each pass.
Through it all, his gaze doesn’t leave me, his mouth parting more the less clothing I wear. Water runs down his face, but he doesn’t blink or shift. He brings his palms to the shower glass before dropping them to his side.
“What are you doing?” he croaks.
“I want to shower with you. Can I?”
He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing thickly through a jerky nod.
I step into the shower stall, vapor billowing around me, then walk closer to Eric. I keep my eyes trained on his face.
He doesn’t. Eric’s amber gaze sweeps over me, studying my shoulders, breasts hidden by my hair, my stomach swollen with life, and the line of every curve on my legs. His eyes travel back to my belly, not around it or losing a flicker of heat. But on it, gaze overflowing with desire.
Eric reaches for me, slides his hand behind my neck, and brings me to him, water sliding across my skin.
Hard wetness pokes at my belly button, then presses firm and long over the curve of my stomach.
I squeeze into him so his full length rubs against my skin.
We both moan. Eric brushes along the side of my jaw with both hands and pushes my long hair past my shoulders, then looks down.
“Goddamn.” He licks his lips.
I exhale shakily, weeks of second-guessing myself dissolving under one single word.
He presses me into him, until my heavy breasts flatten against his mid torso. The head of him pulses against my skin. Eric closes his eyes, rolling behind his eyelids.
“You didn’t ask,” I whisper.
He shakes his head, eyes opening again.
“Because you want me”—I lick my lips—“this way too.”
“Madly.” He drops his lips to mine. “You didn’t need to ask either.”
I lean forward until my forehead touches the center of his chest, my nose tickling the Hercules-style knot on his pec.
He strokes along my back. I explore the arc of his shoulders, spine, and ass.
Water runs between us, over us, around us.
The familiarity of him feels almost unbearable after weeks apart.
“I missed you,” I confess.
His hands drop to my hips, and he tightens the grip, pulling me into him again.
I run my nails up his scalp and down his back.
When his mouth finds mine, I plunge my tongue into the kiss until there’s no doubt in my mind we’re equally ravenous.
Our tongues dance, and he thrusts into me, rubbing his throbbing length against my skin.
Eric’s breathing becomes ragged. The veins on his forearms tense while the kiss never simmers.
His nipples even bead against mine, and it’s so intoxicating I may lose myself in it.
Then, his body tightens under my touch, and the kiss freezes. The ridges of his cock strain against my skin—bigger, longer, harder. He’s so close it’s hard to breathe until he… whimpers.
Everything stalls. Instead of an explosion, there’s just a slow, excruciating deflation. He trembles and softens. This is his honesty too.
I wait for him to pull away, and withdraw or apologize. He stays exactly where he is, forehead against mine, hands still on my skin. Because he understands this moment isn’t a failure, it’s part of us.
So we pour back into the kiss. No trace of shame or embarrassment as we keep touching, stroking, kissing throughout the moment.
The tenderness between us is palpable in every stroke of skin, the desire lingers between my legs and in his softness.
And more than anything else, there’s love.
I wrap my arms around his neck and hold him tighter.
Eric exhales against my temple. Tonight, we healed each other, just a little bit.