52. Jo
Chapter 52
Jo
T he muscles in my forearm begin to cramp from my wild, and probably dramatic, gesticulating. In my post-sex stupor, I almost completely missed the perfectly-organized medicine cabinet full of oddly familiar toiletries.
Non-aerosol dry shampoo.
Powder-scented deodorant.
Makeup remover and reusable cotton pads.
Hydrating facial cleanser.
A giant tub of Aquaphor.
“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” Isaac responds cooly as he sits down on the corner of the bed. His black-framed glasses sit perched on the bridge of his nose, and I can’t even look at him.
“You know goddamn well that you wear musk deodorant and wash your hair twice a day,” I shout, fighting the desire to stand between his legs and run my fingers through his untidied locks. “Why are all my toiletries in your bathroom, Isaac?”
He shrugs nonchalantly and takes a sip from his nearly empty water glass “I use the Aquaphor.”
“ Everyone uses Aquaphor, Isaac , but those shelves are full of everything I use.”
He sets his glass down atop a coaster on the short dresser to his left before looking back to me. His eyes dance playfully up and down my body, and I’m suddenly flushed with a sense of self-consciousness. His shirt is thin and falls just to mid-thigh, leaving a long length of my bare skin free for his blatant visual assessment.
“C’mere.” He reaches his hand out, and I take it without as much as a second thought. Warmth spreads up my arm and through my chest, and I’m terrified. The simple action of him squeezing my hand and pulling me into his lap turns the warmth into a sense of dread. Panic.
“You can’t just give me orgasms and buy me skincare and expect me to fall at your feet.” My body is tense, balancing most of my own weight.
“I know,” he whispers against the skin of my neck. A strong gust pushes frigid air through the bedroom window, hitting us like a Gatorade shower after a championship game. Isaac’s arm wraps more firmly around my waist, and his fingertips dig into the softness of my stomach. He shifts me higher onto his lap, forcing me to drop the remainder of my weight onto him.
“I’m going to crush you.”
“You can lean on me, Jo,” he says. I’m not sure if it’s the events of the evening or the intensity of those words as they ricochet through my hollow chest, but stupid tears form behind my stupid eyes, and I’m fucking crying again. Isaac lifts me easily, setting me onto the mattress next to him. He stands up and closes the window, pulling the curtains shut and turning back to face me, an almost solemn look on his face.
“Did you buy all those things for me?” He nods, climbing back onto the bed and throwing the covers over us. “How did you know what to buy?”
My head finds a spot tucked just under his chin and he surrounds me in every sense.
“Do you remember when you were sick right before we left for the Sacramento conference?” I hum my approval, nuzzling a little closer into his bare chest. “I may have taken a picture of the inside of your sink cabinet.” He chuckles quietly, almost embarrassed, but continues. “I thought maybe, if I ever got lucky enough to have you here, I’d want you to be comfortable.” I try to lift my head to look at him, but he holds me gently against him. A quiet sniffle and a clearing of his throat tell me the reason why.
“Are you crying?” My fingertips find the pulse point at the base of his neck. “Your heart rate is way too high.” He grabs my wrist and places my palm over his chest, covering it with his own.
“I’m just a little overwhelmed, is all.” I try to escape his grasp again, but it’s no use. “I don’t want you to leave,” he responds like he read my mind. “I’m overwhelmed in a good way. In an I’ve dreamt about this for twelve years , kind of way.”
Me too, I want to say. I’m overwhelmed too. But I don’t. Instead, I press my front to his side, settling my weight against him until his breathing steadies. Maybe I can lean on him. Maybe I will.
I know it’s cliche, but I swear I’ve never slept so well. The weight of Isaac’s arm draped over my ribcage could be perceived as stifling, restraining even, but it’s grounding and comforting me with every rise and fall of my chest. That is, until he shifts his body and his forearm lands on my bladder.
“Ugh, you ogre, I’m gonna pee the bed,” I yell, forcing his arm off me and twisting out of the bedding and onto the floor in a graceful— not —maneuver. Isaac groans, rolling over onto his left side while I tiptoe onto the freezing tile floor of the bathroom.
“I’m going to take a shower,” I call out the door after addressing the bladder issue, and I’m met with another groan. “You could join me if you want,” I add, eliciting an instant answer in the form of squeaky mattress springs.
The bathroom is small, but mostly because of the size of the massive walk-in shower. Marble tile spans the entire length of each wall, only separated by a small shelf holding—you guessed it—my exact choice in shampoo, conditioner, and body wash. This man .
Isaac pushes open the bathroom door, his body crowding the space between me and the sink. Bracing me with one arm around my waist, he reaches his free hand into the shower and turns the faucet to hot, a sudden stream of steamy pressurized water hitting the glass shower door.
I glance in the mirror, and let out a long slow breath at the sight of his large body wrapped around mine. His gaze catches mine in our reflection and I crumble—mind, body, and soul.
Every daydream and delusional figment of my Isaac-loving imagination clouds my current perception of reality. He pulls me closer, my back flush against the bare skin of his chest.
“I can’t believe I let you wear this shirt to bed,” he whispers against the exposed skin of my neck. Pulling the cotton up and over my head, I’m left standing naked and exposed in the bright overhead lighting. “New rule”—he presses a soft kiss to my shoulder—“once you step foot in this apartment, all clothes come off.” He slides one finger under the waistband of his boxer briefs, pushes them down over his hips, and they fall to the ground. “Make that both of us. Naked all the time.”
Isaac wraps his fingers around my wrist and spins me to face him, crashing his lips to mine like there’s no time to waste. The glass door swings open, as if by magic or some force of nature, and I’m being guided backward as we explore each other’s mouths. Isaac’s hands grasp my hips firmly, continuing me in a backwards trajectory until I hit the tiled wall of the shower. The temperature difference between the tile and the water streaming from the showerhead is startling. My body doesn’t know if I should shiver or sweat.
Then again, maybe it’s not the temperature that’s the problem.