Page 74 of Dial L for Lawyer
I wasn't made to be seen. Especially not by someone like Caleb Kingsley, who'd make even a Target t-shirt look like it belonged on the cover of GQ.
"OK," I whisper, letting the sheet drop before I scurry to the bathroom, slamming the door behind me like I can lock out my own self-loathing. The bathroom is so big it has its own echo. The mirror stretches wall-to-wall, no mercy, and the overheadlights are set to interrogation. I stare at my reflection. My skin is flushed and splotchy, my hair a tangled mess. Every dimple in my thighs, every stretch mark across my hips is on display. The loose skin on my stomach hangs like an apology I never asked to make, and my boobs aren't much better.
There's a constellation of bruises on my collarbone and hips, and I want to touch them but also want to crawl out of my own skin and dissolve into the grout.
I turn away, throwing open the glass door to the shower. It's one of those ridiculous rich people showers, with six jets and a rain head and a bench you could host a TED talk from. I crank the water up to scalding and step inside. If scalding could rinse off shame, I’d stand here until Lake Michigan ran dry.
The truth is, I hate showering. The sight of my own body is a daily torture. But I force myself to stand under the water, eyes squeezed shut, counting slow Mississippi seconds. I imagine the water sluicing off not just sweat and sex, but the years of shame, the voices that still echo in my head, the ones that said 'you'd be perfect if you got surgery', 'you'd be happier if the loose skin was gone', 'no man wants a woman who looks like she's wearing the wrong sized skin'.
I don't even know why I care what Caleb thinks. I don't even like him...Ugh. That's a lie. Because I do. But not in a way that makes sense. He's arrogant, and intense, and half the time I want to strangle him with his own tie. But there's this other part, the part that wants him to see me and still want me. The part that wants to be wanted, period.
I scrub my hair, running my fingers through the knots, and feel the sting of my own nails on my scalp. I think of his hands—big, strong, hungry—and how last night it felt like he wanted to consume me. Not just the good parts or the strategic angles, but all of me.
I lean my head against the tile and exhale, letting the steam fog up my brain. Maybe that's what terrifies me most. The idea that someone like him could actually see me, and not just the version I curate for the world. But the real me, loose skin and all. And that he'd still want that version of me…
I don't hear him come in. I'm rinsing out conditioner and staring at the tile seam where grout meets marble, wondering if I could just dissolve here, reduce myself down to the minerals and the water and the leftover shame. He opens the door so quietly it's not until the air changes that I realize I'm not alone.
I freeze, hands in my hair, and turn around because there's nothing else to do. There's nowhere to hide in a shower. Not from him, not from myself. He's naked too, and for a second the sight of him—lean and muscled and marked up by my own desperate nails—almost distracts me from the urge to cover up.
"Move over," Caleb says, sliding into the spray and backing me against the tile wall.
The water is a hot sheet between us, but his body is hotter. My back hits the cool marble, and the shock of it makes me gasp. He doesn't say a word, just plants his hands on either side of my shoulders, caging me in. His eyes are dark, intense, and they’re not looking at my face. They’re roaming. Slowly. Deliberately. Over my collarbone, my breasts, my stomach. My traitorous body wants to arch into him, but the shame keeps me pinned, frozen.
"Don't," I whisper, though I don't know what I'm telling him not to do. Don't look? Don't touch? Don't see me?
He ignores me, his gaze dropping lower. "I'm going to tell you something, and I need you to actually hear it."
I nod, unable to speak.
"I've been obsessed with you for nearly eight months. I've imagined you naked a thousand different ways. And lastnight?" His thumb strokes my cheek. "Last night exceeded every fantasy."
"But—"
"I'm not finished." His hands slide down my shoulders. "You want to know what I see?"
Before I can answer, he drops to his knees in the shower.
"I see strength," he says, kissing my stomach where the skin is softest. "I see a woman who remade herself." Another kiss, lower. "I see a body I want at noon as much as at midnight."
"Caleb—"
"Still not finished." He looks up at me, water trickling down his face. "You think I care about some loose skin? Some stretch marks? Baby, I care that you trust me enough to let go. That you want me enough to forget your fears. That's what's sexy."
His mouth is on me then, under the hot spray of water, and my knees buckle. He catches me, pressing me harder against the wall as he devours me.
"This is what I think of your body," he says against me. "This is how much I want you in the light."
He doesn't let up, not even for air. I'm already shaking, the tiles slick against my back, and every movement is frictionless, fluid, dangerous. He slides one arm behind my knees and lifts, just enough to throw my balance off so all I can do is hold onto his shoulders, the rise and fall of his muscles slick against my palms. The water pounds us both, rivulets catching on the ridge of my scars, sluicing down the hollow between my breasts, the soft overhang of my stomach. He doesn't stop to comment, to hesitate, to even blink at what I am. He just kisses and licks and sucks, as if there's something under my skin he needs to swallow whole.
It's too much in the way only tenderness can be. Every spot he touches becomes a fresh wound, a hot streak of want fusing with the dissolution of old shame. I want to tell him to stop, toturn the lights off or the water colder or myself invisible, but he's looking at me like there's no way I could ever disappear.
He eats me out while I'm sobbing, and when I come undone—body shaking, hands digging into his hair—it's not just pleasure. It's something ugly and beautiful together, like crying at a wedding or laughing at a funeral.
I collapse against him, my body boneless, and he holds me there for a long time, water sluicing everything away. When I finally breathe again, he stands, lifting me so I wrap my legs around his waist. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't act as though my weight is too much or my need too greedy. He just holds me, kisses my face, my jaw, my puffy eyelids, accepting this messy version of me like he has no doubts about holding all of me up.
"You OK?" he asks softly.
I press my face to his clavicle and nod, breathing in the warm, fresh scent of his skin. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm OK."
