I ease out of her, remove the condom, then scoop her into my arms. She’s still all gorgeously drugged out. “Take a shower with me,” I say.
She gives a soft yes, and the look in her eyes also says that’s exactly where she wants to be.
8LOGAN
In the bathroom, I toss the condom, turn on the shower in the claw-foot tub, and adjust the temperature.
She steps under first, and I survey the tiny room out of curiosity. I want to know her, and bathrooms can offer a sneak peek at who someone really is.
The space is bursting with personality, the vanity lined with cruelty-free lotions in tropical scents, the pristine walls covered with framed illustrations of fifties housewives saying things like Some people are like clouds. When they disappear, it’s a brighter day, or a cheery blonde receptionist clutching an old-fashioned phone with a cartoon bubble over her head reading My business is my business. So, unless you’re a thong, don’t be up my ass.
I point my thumb at that one. “Very clever.”
“It was either that or a cheesy corporate image of a mountain with a saying like Determination,” she remarks as she tests the spray of water.
“I’m glad you don’t have that in the bathroom.”
“Or anywhere, for that matter.”
“Indeed,” I say as I join her under the water, yanking the curtain closed. We’re in a cocoon of steam and heat.
There, I savor this moment. The blissful after-sex moment that comes from knowing you both wanted it the same way, you both liked it the same way.
Something I haven’t experienced in a damn long time.
Over the years, my ex-wife and I became less compatible in the bedroom, just as we did in life. We became less connected. Maybe because in one decade we’d never communicated as explicitly as Bryn and I have in just one night.
Or maybe because we never truly wanted the same things, the same way.
That’s a new kind of pleasure.
The before, the during, and the after.
It ignites something deeper than desire. Something like a wish.
A wish for more.
A wish, too, to understand Bryn.
To talk to her. To peel back some of the layers I saw tonight. I grab the body wash, squirt some into my hands, and let them roam over her skin. She hums on a long exhale. “That feels good.”
“You feel good,” I say as I wash her arms, her belly, her breasts. “And so do your breasts. Why did you think I wouldn’t like them?”
She shrugs. “Because most guys think they like fake breasts, then they touch them and realize it’s just the idea of them they like.”
I slide my hands over them as the water pounds down on us, screwing up my face like I’m considering, evaluating. “Let’s see . . .” I glance down at my dick, half soft but perking up as I touch her. “Seems I like both the idea and the reality.”
She laughs, but then her humor fades. “Are you going to ask why I have them?”
“Do you want me to?”
She nods.
“Why do you have them?” I ask as she takes the gel and washes the rest of her body.
“Because I was tiny as a teenager. My breasts were tiny. Like, nearly flat in high school. And I was fine with that. I had brains, confidence, and a mouth.”
I run a finger across her bottom lip. “You’re very mouthy.”
She nibbles on my finger, playfully biting it. “I am. But by the time I was twenty-five, I decided I wouldn’t mind if they were a cup size bigger. So, as a birthday present, I bought myself some Bs. I figured there was no reason not to give myself a little boost when I could.”
“So, you did it for you.”
“I did it for me.”
“Seems like a damn good reason,” I say.
The nervousness flickers again in her irises. “You really don’t mind how they feel?”
I scoff. “I’m all good with everything,” I say, looping a hand around her waist as the hot water beats down. I don’t want to let her go. And I don’t want this to be a one-night-only thing. “So good that I’d like to see you again.”
She shimmies her shoulders. “Because of my girls?” she asks coyly.
I laugh, shaking my head. “Nope. Because I like talking to you and I like fucking you. Want to do this a second time?”
She nods, ropes her arms around my neck, and kisses me in the shower. “I would love to see you again.”
