Page 43 of Stony Point Summer
And Shane, yes, he damn well smiles at this unexpected turn of events. Smiles and watches this beautiful woman surprising his evening. Setting her shorts aside, she lifts off her lacy camisole next, folds it and sets that aside, too. Standing there wearing only a black bra and panties, she says nothing. Not that she has to. He’s plenty enjoying her silence—knowing what’s about to happen. Still, instead of talking, all she does is slightly turn up her hands, with a hesitant smile.
Shane alleviates her doubt, right away. He reaches an arm over and opens the shower door. “Come on,” he says, hitching his head for her to join him beneath the shower spray.
* * *
Her smile then is genuine. Relaxed. As she crosses the bathroom floor barefoot, Celia unhooks her bra and slips that off, too, letting the bra drop to the tile floor. Right as she does, Shane reaches out from the shower, takes her hand and guides her inside with him. He positions her so that she stands beneath the rainfall showerhead high above them. The water gently streams down her body—wetting her hair, her face—which she tips up to the cool spray. Rivulets flow down her neck, her breasts.
When Shane loops his arms around her hips, Celia opens her eyes. Does something else, too. Hands onhiships, she moves behind Shane now. Behind him and raising one of his arms so that it’s extended against the tile wall. Leaning in, her mouth leaves kisses along that dripping arm, her tongue tracing along the swirls of one tattoo, then another, as she works her way to his shoulder, his neck. All from behind, until he turns to face her and movesheragainst the wall, beneath the shower stream. When he raises his hands to her neck and holds her face then, his forearms press against her bare breasts. The sensation of it all—their wet touches, the streaming water—gets Celia to tip up her face again, her eyes closed, her mouth open as that sluicing water washes over her.
The thing is, Shane’s seen Celia at her worst, and at her best. And to see her like this now, so gladly in the momentwithhim, uninhibited, means everything. Just this morning, when he read her kiss-off letter that landed in his Maine mailbox, he thought they were done.
Now? Now his fingers, they cradle her face while his thumbs brush across her wet mouth, her jaw, over and over. She takes those dripping fingers, too, in her mouth, until he lowers his hands. Embracing her neck, he leans in and deeply kisses her right there beneath the water streaming over both of them. That kiss, it’s like he’s taking in one long inhale necessary to live. All the while, Celia’s hands, they don’t stop. They glide up his forearms now. Her fingers loop around his wrists as they kiss—the water drenching their skin, their slick bodies pressed together.
Shane feels it then, feels the way her chest rises with each excited breath. The way her kisses lengthen, her tongue playing with his, her eyes closed in pleasure. What it all does is make him want to stop time. To slow it, at least. To draw out the most real encounter he’s had in years.
To be with Celia, completely.
So he kisses her mouth.
Her face.
Her neck.
His hands then gradually unravel her side braid—strand by single strand, his fingers moving through them one at a time—before running his splayed fingers through her sodden hair and pushing it back off her face.
But that’s not all they do, his hands. They keep going, tracing over her wet breasts, down her belly and slipping into her shower-soaked panties. His fingers slowly hook around those panties and slide them right down her legs. Celia’s careful beneath the streaming water as she lifts one foot, then the other, until he gets those panties off. When his hands trail up her dripping legs and then caress her water-beaded body, she presses urgent kisses to his face, his jaw, near his ear, murmurs how good it all feels, too.
“Easy, babe. Easy,” he whispers. Feeling every curve of Celia, he slowly turns her so that he’s standing behind her now. While reaching his hands around to her breasts, and kissing her neck, she tips her head down, breathless at his insistent touch.
But when that touch has her twist around to him again, he stops her from turning. She goes with it, standing close to the shower glass and bracing her hands flat against the wet glass—obviously waiting for his next move.
So he makes one. And he stretches that move out, lingering long with it. Placing his hands over hers on the glass, he leans right against her and nuzzles her neck. She says his name then—once softly, then again. And he knows. His touch says more than his few words might. The shower water streams over them both, drizzling down the length of their bodies. His kisses do the same, moving slowly down her shoulder, across her back, to her face. When she tries to turn her head to meet his kiss, he steps back and locks her in place from behind. “Not yet,” he says, entwining his wet fingers with hers on the glass. Beneath the spray of water, the length of his body presses to hers as their fingers slip together—linking, stroking, spreading—until he finally lets her turn to him.
She slowly does, murmuring for him not to stop, pleading for more of his touch before cupping her hands to his face and kissing him deeply beneath the streaming water.
And touching him back.
Facing her now, Shane lifts one of her legs, looping his hand beneath the thigh and raising that leg close to his hip. He reaches his other arm around Celia to support her firmly against the back tiled wall. Once she’s steady, she takes all of him, there in the shower. He feels her wet hands glide down his backside, pulling him even closer. Her head tips up then, her mouth open with each gasp, the pulsating water washing over them both.
* * *
Afterward, everything happens fast.
That was the beauty of their shower together. It couldn’t have been slower. Each moment, drawn out.
But now, after Celia towel-dried him outside the shower—pressing a plush towel along his entire body—they just as urgently want that drink.
“The Sand Bar okay for you?” Shane asks.
“Perfect,” Celia whispers, then quickly swipes off the steamy mirror.
Everythingfeels urgent now, with being together. Maybe it’s because Shane’s only here for a few days and the hours are ticking past. They don’t want to waste even a minute. So as Shane hurries in and out of the bathroom, grabbing a comb, deodorant, Celia’s digging through the vanity for a small hairdryer. Finding one, she finagles its old plug in the outlet and stands on tiptoe in front of the now-slightly-steamy mirror. Wrapped in a towel, she blows her hair dry, fluffing it with her fingers before looking around for her scattered clothes. He catches fleeting glimpses of her: Celia scooping up a piece here, lifting her bra there, finally stepping into her denim cutoffs and smoothing the fabric of her lace-trimmed black tank top.
In the bathroom, Shane pulls on his jeans, too, then a fresh button-down in his bedroom,quick,quick. He snaps on his braided leather cuff before folding back his shirtsleeves, spiking his damp hair and grabbing his truck keys.
They cross paths this way, that way. Celia adjusting her watchband on her wrist, Shane tugging on his boat shoes.
In the bathroom, back to the bedroom dresser mirror.
