Page 22 of Where the Roses Bloom
“Not yet,” I said. “But I’d like to.”
That was all we said.
That was too much.
By the time the sun started sinking low, the sweat had dried on my back, and my palms were caked with dirt. She’d gone in to shower, and I’d stood out there another five minutes just staring at that damn sundial like it might turn back time and let me rewind everything I’d just said.
It didn’t.
She was stillon my mind when I finally turned in to shower, shutting myself in the master suite right down the hall from where I was certain she was still up, reading or journaling. I could picture her there, cross-legged on the quilt,hair damp from the shower, scribbling something with her nose scrunched in concentration.
God, that nose. Those freckles. The way she bit her lip when she was thinking. The way she looked at me last night over her wineglass, like I was something warm she wanted to wrap herself in. Like maybe she was starting to feel the pull too.
I twisted the water knob as far as it would go, hot as I could stand, and stepped under the spray.
For a while I just stood there, hands braced on the tile, steam rising around me. Trying to shake the image of her from my head. Trying and failing.
She’d bent over the garden bed this afternoon and my world had tilted. Every time she smiled, something unspooled in my chest. Every time she brushed her fingers through her hair, I wanted to step in, take that hand, kiss the dirt off her knuckles. I wanted to pull her close and see if she’d make that same sound she made when she tasted my dumplings.
I let out a breath and closed my eyes.
My hand drifted down without much thought.
Just enough to wrap around myself, thumb dragging across the head. A slow stroke. Then another. I imagined her standing there instead of me—watching. Curious. Flushed and barefoot on the tile, hair falling down around her shoulders, mouth parted in that sweet little surprise she wore so often around me.
I bit my lip, leaned my head back, and let the water pour over me.
Not too fast. Not yet.
I wanted to draw it out—just like I would with her.
Not rushed. Not rough.
Nice…and slow…
I imagined her stepping into the shower, slipping behind me, warm hands ghosting across my back, her breath a whisperagainst my shoulder. She’d press her mouth there first—soft, unsure—and I’d turn, just enough to see the flutter of her lashes, the flush blooming down her throat, those brown eyes that were almost gold.
I’d cup her cheek. Let my thumb brush the curve of her bottom lip.
She’d kiss it. Gentle.
And I’d fall.
My grip tightened, pace steady now, synced with the rhythm of her imagined sighs. I pictured her sliding her fingers through mine, guiding my hand—showing me how she wanted it. How she wantedme.
And God, I wanted to give her everything.
The curve of her waist under my palm. The way her thighs would part for me, instinctive and trembling. The softness of her belly, the slope of her collarbone, her voice when she came undone—sharp, sweet, a prayer turned to plea.
I imagined her whispering my name.
Just once. Just mine.
The sound of it, even imagined, knocked the breath from my lungs. I pressed my forehead to the tile, chest heaving, water beating down like it might scrub her out of me.
And my hand was still on my cock, stroking faster now as I pictured her.
Willow, eyes squeezed shut, brow furrowed.
