Page 45 of My Lovely Tragedy
“Just no?”
“Yes.” Once I’m through scrubbing his body for the first time, I grab the last cloth and set about doing a final scrub, ensuring every inch of his skin is clean. Because I know, even in the state he’s in, feeling clean—being clean—really does help.
“I can clean myself,” he grumbles but doesn’t move to actually do it himself.
“I know.”
“You like taking care of me or something? Like me all fucking weak and pathetic, totally reliant on you?” It’s said with a petulant sneer—which I dutifully ignore.
“Yes,” I answer without pause, the verity coming easily. Brooklyn coughs, surprised.
“Wow.” A pause. “Okay then.”
“Is that a problem?” I drag the cotton up and around his neck, encircling my fingers along the front of his throat, loving the width. The corded muscle. Life… a hair’s breadth away. So effortlessly stolen and manipulated.
Almost mine.
“Yes.” Brooklyn doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t ask him to.
There is something poignant in the air between us, interwoven into the steam and vanilla. Tasteless but strong.
Silence settles. It surges along my skin like minuscule needle pricks, but I find solace within the discomfort and move steadily along scrubbing him clean, relishing in the moment for what it is—and everything it is not.
By the time I reach his waist, fingers inches away from his penis, he jerks away from my touch. I pause, just below the surface of the water, eyes searching his face and finding every possible trace of palpable discomfort.
My fingers twitch to ignore it, to implore. To take what I want. But a voice, louder than the ache in my skull, says not to push him. That if I do, hewillbreak.
Andthat…is nearly enough for me to do it.
“Beloved…”Draw him in.“I do have the very same anatomy. It’s nothing I have not?—”
“I don’t care; I’ll do it myself.” He reaches indignantly for the cloth, which I slip into his hand with sincere regret.
I push myself up, knees creaking and aching from the position. Blood rushes into my calves, shooting needles into the soles of my feet. Gracelessly, I walk to the vanity to grab a towel. Slowly unfold it. Splay it wide in front of me.
And I wait.
A splash of water, the squeak of his body against porcelain. The rush of water down the drain and a heavy breath.
“Okay.”
I turn toward Brooklyn, already reaching for him. He takes the towel with unsteady hands and dries his face. After dragging it roughly over his arms and torso, he wraps it around his waist and steps out, dripping onto the floor.
With another towel in hand, I indicate to him to give me his back with a quick rotation of my hand. He eyes me warily, but I never meet his gaze. With scrunched eyes, he does as he’s bid. I lift his hair with one hand and wrap the towel around it with the other, working through the sopping strands to absorb the water.
I’m gentle and worshipful, body filled with ardor as I drag soft cotton through Brooklyn golden hair. Over his broad shoulders, down his spine, tracing each vertebra with the utmost respect.
I fall to my knees before him once more without a single thought of the implications. Of what it means. For me… and for him.
All I know is it feels right to be below him. To worship and to aid.
I dry every last drop from his toes to the backs of his knees, already certain Brooklyn will not allow me to move any higher—but that’s all right.
I respect his decision. I would never push him to bend to my will when it comes to that. It has always been aboutmore.Past the bounds of physicality, pushing deep into the realm of his psyche. How well it fits with my own.
As I stand on two feet again, Brooklyn’s hunched over, curled in on himself. Whether because he’s uncomfortable or simply drained, I cannot tell for sure. Reading him comes with its difficulties.
Gripping his shoulders gently, I spin him to face me and place his toothbrush, lined with white toothpaste, into his hand. He scrubs his teeth silently but messily. Foam lines his lips, drips from the corners of his mouth. Over his chin and into his beard.
