BLURRED LINES
Sara
The kitchen is quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge and the blood in my ears, a rush that will not settle.
He’s gone. The image of his bare back, that crooked smile, and his last line, I’ll keep the door open, loop in my head.
My fingers clamp around the water bottle until my knuckles ache and the plastic buckles.
Everything in me stutters, like a glitch I can’t reset.
I hate that he does this: offering the idea of having a choice.
He even has the nerve to frame it like a prize.
Cocky much? I thought that was Cash’s thing.
Chris never pushes, never demands, and I know I can walk away without being questioned. But somehow, I end up exactly where he meant me to be, by my own choice.
That game in the forest woke something in me.
The thrill of running and hiding set my blood on fire.
I wanted to win, but I also wanted to be caught, to find out what he’d do.
The memory of how hard he was beneath me is still carved deep.
In hindsight, I love that I had that effect on him.
But the second I felt him, all my bravado drained away, turning me almost shy.
I am not shy. My thoughts keep circling the same vision: steam curling around naked, wet muscles.
I can’t make it stop. An invisible pull takes hold, lifting me from the chair and urging me into shaky steps toward the stairs.
My body is drawn forward despite every fiber in me warning me to stay.
I move on autopilot, up the stairs and into his room. A wave of warmth rolls out from the bathroom. The shower is running. My heart riots. It’s an alarm, a last chance to turn back before I cross that line.
On bare feet, I slip into the humid bathroom.
The rhythm of water on tile and skin makes my knees go weak.
I undress slowly. First my tank, then my sweatpants.
In the mirror, I check my appearance. My body has changed.
Lean muscle speaks of strength, and a new confidence dictates my every move. I like being fit.
This time, I ditch the underwear too, but wrap a towel around me. It’s little more than a flimsy gesture of modesty.
The room smells of soap. I reach the edge of the walk-in and pause. He stands with his back to me, water streaming down his shoulders, hands in his hair, working shampoo through. Muscles roll beneath wet skin.
My mouth dries. It’s not fear that holds me still this time. It’s desire.
His hand slicks back his hair as he rinses, then he turns to face me. There’s no surprise in his expression, as if he sensed me there. His knowing eyes meet mine. His face carries a smile I’ve never seen on him before. He just looks... happy.
He steps closer, his voice sliding through the steam. “You amaze me every day.”
My lungs stall.
He tugs lightly at my towel. “You want to hold on to this?” he murmurs. His fingers stay on the fabric until I shake my head.
His eyes don’t waver. I’m less sure, less experienced, but when he looks at me like this, none of it matters.
My forehead barely reaches his Adam’s apple. He tilts my chin with two fingers. “You don’t have to be shy with me.”
The towel loosens and crumples softly somewhere near our feet.
Chris gathers me in his arms and kisses me. One hand remains on my chin, holding it in place, while the other strokes up my back, over my neck, and then curls into my hair.
For the first time, I feel his skin on mine—anybody’s skin on mine. He guides us backward beneath the spray without breaking the connection. His kiss is deep. With every swirl of his tongue, I lose myself in it even more. He steals my breath, leaving only him in its place.
His mouth moves along my jaw, then lingers at my ear. “Turn around.”
I obey.
The scent of shampoo rises. His fingers slide through my hair, lathering it and massaging my scalp in patient circles. The motions soothe my nerves. I close my eyes and let myself stay here in this moment with his touch, ignorant of what was yesterday and what will be tomorrow.
He rinses, then adds conditioner, applying the same care with unhurried fingers.
Once he’s finished, he turns me to face him again “That okay?” he asks softly.
I can’t find the words, so I simply nod.
He takes the body wash, rubbing it into creamy suds between his palms. He touches me with it, starting at my shoulders, then my arms. He works his way down, taking his time. Every movement is deliberate, every stroke an anchor.
His eyes stay locked on mine as he crouches down and glides both hands up and down my left leg, grazing places no one’s ever touched before.
Heat floods my cheeks, a stutter runs through my chest and my knees nearly buckle.
When he’s done with my other leg, he gets up, pours a measure of soap into my hands, and presses them against his chest. “Your turn.”
My hands tremble.
I spread the lather bit by bit, savoring the feel of hard muscle beneath my palms. I try to hold his gaze, but my eyes betray me, dropping again and again to his shoulders, his stomach, the cut of his hips. His breath shifts with every place I touch as I follow the routine he showed me.
Once the soap rinses away, calm is the last thing between us.
He leans in and kisses me hard, as though it could be the last time. My hands climb of their own accord, curling around his neck and tangling in his hair. I hunger for more. I hunger for him.
But he stops.
His mouth hovers over mine, every part of him strung tight. “I don’t want to stop,” he whispers. “So if you want me to... if you’re not sure... now’s the time.”
My pulse hammers, but my hands stay where they are. Then I pull him closer and kiss him again.
What he was holding back breaks loose. His hands catch my wrists, lifting them above my head and pinning them to the wall with one strong grip, and I let him.
His free hand finds my face, holding me steady as he deepens the kiss.
Water runs over us. Tremors dance across my skin at every point we touch.
I’m aware of every hard inch of him, and I know exactly where this is heading.
And I want it.
I close my eyes and let the sensations consume me until one sudden, clear thought slices through the haze. My eyes fly open. Air catches in my chest.
He breaks the kiss and searches my face.
“I don’t want to get pregnant,” I say, barely audible.
His lips seek mine again, and between each kiss he murmurs, “You won’t. I got snipped years ago. There’s no danger.”
My lungs finally release a long exhale. Relief and want and trust pour together.
His hand moves again, more deliberate, as if he knows exactly where I need him and how. Strong, never rough. I press my forehead to his collarbone, almost ashamed of what I have to tell him next. “I don’t know how to do this,” I admit.
He pauses, then bends to kiss the center of my forehead. I catch the curve of his smile there. “I’ve got you,” he says. “Hold on.”
My hands drop onto his shoulders when he releases my wrists.
He grabs my thighs and lifts me with ease, one leg on either side of his hips.
He shuts off the water and carries me to the bedroom a few steps away, where my back sinks onto the mattress and he kneels between my thighs.
His gaze moves slowly, taking in every detail.
He told me I was beautiful before. Now he lets me live it.
When he covers my body with his, he’s careful not to crush me and braces his weight on his forearms, cradling the back of my skull. His kisses are more restrained now, as if he’s calming us both for what comes next.
Nothing about me is composed right now. All my attention is on him. Just when I think my heart can’t beat any faster, he pauses.
I touch the edge of his jaw.
His eyes lock on mine, questioning without words, and I answer with a tiny tilt of my chin.
Everything shifts when he claims my body. I hold on, and I let go. Nothing is the same anymore.