Page 14 of Ripe & Ready
Derek steps over to the trio of hotel pumps. Soap, shampoo, conditioner all labeled in that vaguely expensive font that whispersluxury.Definitely not Papyrus, I’ll tell you that.
He pumps out a generous amount, works it into a lather, then turns to me with this look on his face as if I’m the only thing he’s ever wanted and then, because apparently he’s trying to kill me, he starts washing me. Hands slow, sure, gentle.
His fingers move across my chest as if he’s trying to memorize every inch, filing away all the parts of me he’s never gotten to experience until now and the whole time, his eyes stay locked on mine. He’s so soft and easy, and stupidly beautiful and he’s giving me that look you only dream of. This is exactly where we’re meant to be. Even if it took us forever and fifteen years of emotional repression to get here... we’re here now and that’s what matters.
It’s... a lot. Emotionally. Physically. Existentially. Because if he keeps looking at me like that, I might actually believe I deserve it.
“How long has it been?” I ask.
“Since what?”
“Since you realized you liked me. More than… you know. A friend.”
He tilts his head, thinks for a second. That same smile still pulling at his mouth.
“I think I always kinda have,” he says. “I couldn’t ask that of you. I thought… if I kept showing up, over and over, maybe one day you’d come around.” He shrugs. “And you did.”
I turn, giving him access to my back. He rubs the soap across my shoulders, then slow, steady strokes down my spine that make it really hard to focus on anything besides the heat pooling low in my stomach and the fact that I’m one mildly poetic sigh away from losing it completely.
“I wish you would’ve said something.”
“I could’ve,” he says, voice soft. “But small things scare you. Big things terrify you. I didn’t want to risk pushing you too far and losing you completely.”
That lands. Hard.
Because he’s right. My fear wasn’t holding me back. It was holding him back too.
Maybe if he’d told me how he felt, things would’ve changed. Maybe that moment on a slide in North Carolina was the start of it all with him always being the one to remind me I do have a backbone.
But it doesn’t matter.
I missed out on years of his love becauseIwas afraid. Not him.
“You should ask for what you want, Derek,” I say, trying to keep my voice even, but I’ve been practically holding my breath since he first touched me. “You don’t know what people are willing to give unless you ask.”
He goes quiet. His hands still, then slowly retreat, and he takes a step back. Even with hot water pouring over both of us, I feel the absence of his touch immediately. My skin misses him before my brain even catches up.
“You think so?” he asks after a second. His voice is thoughtful, a little unsure in a way I’m not used to from him.
I nod, trying not to over-explain, which is wild because me holding back? Growth.
“You do more for people than anyone I’ve ever met,” I tell him, and that’s not me being in love with him. That’s just true. “If you asked… if you let people show up for you the way you show up for them? I really think they would.”
I pause. “I know I would.”
He hums low in his throat, something thoughtful flickering in his eyes. “Okay, then.”
One of his hands glides down my back. Lower. Fingers sliding between my cheeks, slow and deliberate, tracing lazy strokes against me that make my knees threaten to buckle.
I groan, pressing into him.
“I want this,” he whispers.
His lips press against the curve of my neck.
“I want you.”
Another kiss. Lower this time, between my shoulder blades at the center of my spine.
