Chapter 28
Dick Unmoved
Geoff
Icarry Christa to my bedroom like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
She’s warm and pliant in my arms, all soft weight and sleepy trust, one arm looped loosely around my neck. The flat is quiet again, the kitchen romp already feeling like it happened to someone else.
I lower her onto the bed and she turns instinctively, curling into me, like she’s done it before. Like she knows where she belongs. Her head tucks under my chin. My arm comes around her without thinking.
We don’t talk.
The room settles. The kind of silence that isn’t awkward. Just full.
I stare at the ceiling, heart still thudding a bit too hard, body humming. Seeing her come like that had done something to me. Not downstairs. No miracles there. But everywhere else? My blood had absolutely lost its mind. Heat. Possession. Want so sharp it still buzzes under my skin.
This feels right.
That’s the dangerous thought.
Not the sex. Not the kitchen. This. Her breathing evening out against my chest. The way my thumb rests at her shoulder like it’s always lived there. The fact that I don’t feel the urge to run or joke or fill the space with noise.
Eventually she shifts, just slightly.
“Can I ask you something?” she says quietly.
“Always.”
She hesitates. I can practically hear her choosing her words.
“Was there… anything,” she asks carefully, “stirring?”
I huff out a laugh before I can stop myself. Honest feels safer than dramatic.
“No,” I say. “Dick was fully unmoved. Completely uninterested in the entire evening.”
She sighs, exaggerated and theatrical. “Shame. I was hoping I might be the miracle cure.”
I glance down at her. She’s smiling into my chest.
“Sorry to disappoint.”
She snorts. “I’d already mentally pencilled myself in as your new treatment plan. Very dedicated. Regular sessions. Possibly a loyalty card.”
“Ten visits and the eleventh one’s free.”
“Exactly.”
I shake my head, laughing quietly into the dark. “I appreciate the commitment.”
She shifts closer, if that’s even possible. “Well. Worth a try.”
“Absolutely,” I say. “Strong effort.”
We lie there, grinning, the humour easing something loose between us. No pressure. No disappointment. Just warmth and shared ridiculousness.
Her hand settles on my chest. Still. Easy.
“I’m glad you asked,” I add after a moment.
“Why?”
“Because this,” I say, meaning all of it, “was never about fixing anything.”
She hums softly, already drifting.
“Good,” she murmurs. “Because I quite liked it exactly as it was.”
So did I.
I hold her while sleep takes her properly this time, the weight of her steady and grounding, and let myself think the dangerous thought again.
This feels right.
And, for once, I don’t immediately try to talk myself out of it.
I wake to weight.
Not the alarming sort. The good sort. Warm, solid, breathing. Christa is still there, curled into my side, one knee slung over my thigh, her hair in my face.
For a second, I just lie there, stunned by the normality of it. Morning light sneaking round the curtains. Her breath warm against my chest. No alarms going off in my head. No urge to bolt.
This still feels right.
She stirs, nose nudging into my collarbone, fingers brushing my ribs in that half-asleep, absent-minded way that should probably be illegal.
“Morning,” I murmur.
She hums, not quite awake yet. Then she is. Her eyes blink open and she grins, soft and a bit shy, like she’s checking I’m still real.
“Hi,” she says.
We lie there for a moment, just looking at each other. It’s quiet in the flat. Peaceful. Dangerous again.
She clears her throat.
Then, very carefully, she peeks under the duvet.
I blink. “What are you doing?”
“Checking,” she says, entirely unapologetic.
“Checking what?”
She looks back up at me. “Morning wood.”
I bark out a laugh. “You’re subtle, you know that.”
“Well,” she shrugs, “it felt like a reasonable data-gathering exercise.”
I shake my head, still smiling. “For the record, my brother did once suggest I should sleep with women in the morning when I’ve got wood. It’s a known window of opportunity.”
Her eyes light up. “See. I knew it wasn’t a stupid thought.”
“Sadly,” I say, regretfully, “not even a tiny splinter this morning.”
She sighs, dramatic and put-upon. “Tragic.”
“Devastating,” I agree.
She flops back against the pillow, then glances at me sideways. “Worth checking though.”
“Always worth checking,” I say solemnly.
There’s a beat.
Then I add, “That said...”
She looks at me again.
“I might not be able to offer that particular service,” I murmur against her lips, my voice still rough with sleep and something heavier underneath, “but I do have other skills.”
My hand keeps moving, slow and certain, sliding between her legs.
She sucks in a breath. “You do realise,” she says, half-amused, half-hopeful, “that my knickers are still in the kitchen.”
“Logistical oversight,” I reply, and she laughs softly as my fingers find warmth and arousal between her thighs.
“Mmm,” she murmurs. “I was kind of hoping you’d say that.”
She rolls onto her back so she can look at me, eyes still sleepy but already darkening. She looks wrecked and beautiful and far too comfortable here.
I don’t tease. Not this time.
My fingers move with intent, confident now, and her breath stutters, a broken little sound leaving her as her body responds immediately. I press my forehead to hers, kissing her again, slow and grounding, letting her feel exactly where I am and where I’m not.
She arches into my hand, trusting, open, her body warm and responsive in a way that makes something fierce and protective curl low in my chest.
“That okay?” I murmur.
“Yes,” she breathes. “God, yes.”
I keep my movements steady, focused, feeling the way she tightens, the way her breathing changes, the way she grips my shoulder as sensation builds. Her name is on my lips without me meaning it to be. Mine falls from hers like she’s holding onto it.
She comes with a soft cry, body shuddering beneath my hand, clinging to me as if I’m the only solid thing in the room. I don’t rush her. I don’t pull away. I stay right there until she eases back down, boneless and breathless against the pillows.
For a moment, there’s only the sound of her breathing evening out, the slow thud of my heart, the morning light creeping higher on the wall.
Then she blinks up at me, mouth tipping into a lazy, satisfied smile.
“Still counts as helping,” she says.
I smile back, brushing my thumb gently over her hip. “Any time.”
And I mean it.
She disappears into the bathroom with a towel tucked under her arm and a backwards glance that’s all soft mouth and promise.
The door clicks shut.
I stand there for a second, stupidly still, then scrub a hand over my face and head for the kitchen.
Breakfast. Normal things. Eggs. Kettle. Toast. The ordinary rhythm of it steadies me in a way I didn’t realise I needed. The extractor hums. The pan heats. Butter softens on the counter.
My body feels… quiet.
Not disappointed. Not buzzing. Just present.
That’s new.
I crack eggs into the pan and watch them settle, edges turning opaque, centres still lazy and slow. I lean my hip against the counter and let myself think instead of hiding behind jokes and distraction.
What just happened didn’t feel like a test.
There was no proving. No pressure. No internal scorecard running in the background. I didn’t have to perform or fix or push my body into doing something it’s currently refusing to do.
I was just there.
With her.
Helping. Wanting. Feeling connected without thinking about my own release.
It wasn’t triumphant. There was no mental fireworks display or victorious fanfare.
It was calm.
I flip the eggs, the toast pops up, and I plate everything with the quiet care of a man who suddenly understands that gentleness counts as competence too.
From the bathroom comes the sound of the shower starting, water hitting tile, Christa humming faintly to herself. Something loosens in my chest at the sound. She sounds… settled.
I make tea. Two mugs. Same ones we always use without ever discussing it. Muscle memory already rewriting itself.
Standing there, buttering toast, I realise something else.
Sex doesn’t have to be about proving I still work.
It can be about showing up.
About being attentive. About listening. About wanting her and letting that be enough, even if my body’s still catching up with the plan.
I carry the plates to the table and set them down. Steam curls up. Everything smells good. Normal. Domestic in a way that would have sent me running six months ago.
Now it just feels… right.
The bathroom door opens a few minutes later. She pads out, hair damp, wearing one of my T-shirts like it belongs to her. She smiles softly when she sees breakfast.
“You made food,” she says.
“I did,” I reply. “Very heroic.”
She laughs and takes a seat, reaching for my hand without thinking.
I sit opposite her, tea warming my palms, and let myself just be here.
No proving. No pressure.
Just breakfast.