The shower was running and Francis was digging through his clothes trying to find something unobjectionable enough for Grace to wear. Naked would, of course, have been his preferred choice but he knew she wouldn't go for it. Besides, he'd seen her naked before. He'd never seen her in his clothes.
He was contemplating his The Wolfman Ate My Homework! t-shirt when it occurred to him. Sticking his head around the bathroom door, he cleared his throat. "Uh, where's Emma?"
Grace's wet face poked out from the shower curtain and blinked at him in surprise.
"What? I don't want to be responsible for child endangerment if you've left her in the car or at home with the oven on."
"She's staying at my sister's tonight."
Siblings, he thought. So unexpectedly useful. "Maybe I should send your sister a thank you card."
Grace rolled her eyes and went back to her shower.
In the end he chose a pair of plain cotton boxers and a black t-shirt. It was almost like a little black dress if he squinted. Francis changed into pyjama pants and sat on the end of the bed. He felt suddenly adrift, as if without Grace's presence the world had become less defined, more amorphous tonight. As if his compass spun wildly until it found her, like true north. It was unsettling.
When she came out of the bathroom in his clothes, with her hair piled on top of her head, she looked almost shy. "Bathroom's yours," she said.
He stood up, feeling awkward. "Do you want anything? Water?"
"No, I'm fine. Just tired." As if to prove it, she yawned hugely.
"Yeah, me too. Go ahead," he said, gesturing to the bed. "I'll be a couple of minutes."
In the bathroom he took a piss, then downed some ibuprofen and brushed his teeth. Grace's discarded pink scrubs sat in a heap in the corner, a strip of black just peeking out of the pile. It looked so normal, so coupled — her clothes in his bathroom while she lay in his bed -- but the fact of it was so astonishing he could barely believe it. Yet when he opened the door to the bedroom, there she was, curled up on her side. Her back was to him, so he took a few seconds just to look at her, at the space she took up, how she seemed to fill the room. Something in his chest constricted.
He took a deep breath, switched off the bathroom light, and made his way to the bed.
They were lying close, but not quite touching, facing each other in the middle of the bed. Grace's hair spread out across the pillow and spilled into the hollow of her throat where the t-shirt gaped. In the light from the bedside lamp, the effect was a seductive chiaroscuro. Francis wanted to lick her, right there.
Instead, he reached for her hand and stroked the pads of his fingers along the path from her wrist to each fingertip, one at a time. When he had finished, she turned her hand over and he repeated the touch across her palm.
"I'm sorry I lied to you tonight," she said, very softly.
He looked up, into her eyes, and saw her watching him. He heard her say, again, I don't love you. The look on her face. The panic that had gripped him, then the anger. How much it had hurt and how savagely he'd wanted to hurt her in return.
With a sigh, he stroked the hair around her ear. "You wish you didn't love me."
There were tears in her eyes. "Would you want to?"
"No," he admitted. "I'm selfish and I'm a bastard. What I said about you being a pathetic narcissist, that's not you. It's me. Sometimes I hurt you just because I can. I'm going to try not to do that anymore. I can't promise that I won't, but I'm going to try."
Her mouth made the funny little shape that meant she was trying not to cry, and she nodded. He nodded back and kissed her, just a soft, gentle touch of lips. The promise he couldn't make. When he pulled away, her mouth followed his. This close he could smell her, the scent that was her unique chemistry, her skin and glands. Knowing the biology of it didn't make it any less arousing to have that smell in his bed, on his clothes and hands.
Her mouth was gorgeous and he let himself just kiss her for a while, revelling in the feel of her, of knowing it was real this time. The slight hesitations she made, the little hitching breaths, were somehow sexier than the raw carnality of the night he'd imagined. They barely touched except with their mouths but he was already half hard. It was almost unbearably erotic.
Despite what she'd said about not having sex, he knew he could convince her if he tried. But there was no way he was going to maintain an erection with the fatigue and the pain. Still, there was something he could do for her, wanted to do for her. It was a crappy excuse for an apology for everything he'd done, but it was a start. If she'd let him.
Inching closer to her, he began to touch her: her face, her arm, her thigh. She was soft everywhere, the fine grain of her skin almost fluid under his hands. He tried not to think about Lucas touching her – he'd been trying not to think about it for almost a year – or about how he might compare. All that mattered was now, was this. Her.
He mapped the span between her hip and her ribs through the soft cotton of his t-shirt, then let his hand wander underneath it, trailing over her stomach. Grace made a noise in her throat and pushed at his hand. "Francis, I don't—"
"I know," he said. "I know. I'm not trying to – I just want –" he shook his head in frustration "—just let me do this for you. Please."
There was doubt on her face, a heartbreaking uncertainty.
"Lisa," he said, stretching her name, drawing out the sibilant 's'. "Let me make you come."
She shivered and caught her breath, then slowly let go of his hand.
Watching her intently, he slid his palm up to cup the undercurve of her breast and used his thumb to slowly circle her nipple. Her eyes fluttered shut, the lashes long and dark even without makeup. He bent his head to her other breast and began gently scraping his teeth across it through her t-shirt. As her nipple rose up under his mouth, he nipped at it and finally took it between his teeth, increasing the pressure until she gasped. The sound went straight to his groin.
He rolled her back against the mattress, half pining her under him, and rucked the t-shirt up over her breasts. They were every bit as spectacular as he'd hallucinated. Leaning down, he began placing soft, wet kisses across her sternum and both breasts, staying well away from the nipples. Grace's breathing became erratic and her thighs moved against his restlessly.
"You are such a tease," she muttered.
He flicked his tongue against one nipple and she bucked up underneath him, trapping his cock in a sweet vice against her hip. "I'm not a tease," he said. "A tease promises but doesn't delivers. I'm just warming up."
He began a rhythm of steady flicks with his tongue against one nipple, using his hand on her other breast. After a few seconds she was gripping the sheets and making soft little moans.
"I love how sensitive your breasts are," he told her as he switched hand and mouth. She cried out and clutched at his good arm as he began to suck. He kept going, alternating between breasts, nipping, sucking, flicking, using his lips and tongue and teeth, even his scratchy stubble. Her hands gripped his arms, his back, his hair as she shifted underneath him. Then she was pulling him back up her body to her mouth, where he went willingly. She kissed him hungrily, gripping his head with both hands to hold him in place. The sparse hair on his chest rubbed against her nipples and she broke away, panting.
"God, Francis, I can't—"
For a second he thought about drawing it out further, making her beg for it, but that wasn't what this was about. This was for her, not him, and he was already desperate to touch more of her.
He kissed her again to distract her and slid one hand down underneath the waistband of his boxers. She was so wet, he groaned against her mouth. His hips had taken up a rhythm of their own, and he would've been embarrassed that he was basically dry humping her if it hadn't been so damn hot.
He circled the entrance to her vagina slowly, with steady pressure, until he found a spot that made her breath catch. Then he slid one finger in and out, keeping that same steady pressure. Her hips undulated under his hand and her skin was covered in a thin sheen of sweat. They were both panting, no longer kissing, faces pressed together in a kind of mutual desperation.
Finally he began circling her clit with the same rhythm as his finger. Bending his head to her ear, he began to tell her in explicit detail some of the things he wanted to do with her. How he wanted to go down on her in her office, at her desk, in front of those glass doors where she'd have to just sit there and let him lick her until she came. How he wanted to fuck her on his bike, in one of her tight little executive suits, just before a meeting, so she would smell him on her for the rest of the day and feel him every time she crossed her legs. Grace was making the most incredible little animal noises and he was so turned on he was about to come in his pants like a teenager. He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep going before he lost it.
And then it happened. For a moment she froze, hips arched and her head thrown back, then he felt her cunt spasming around his fingers as she came, keening. He stayed with her as the spasms eased, keeping a firm, steady pressure on her clit, and in a few seconds her back arched as she came again in fast, hard contractions.
He was going to try for a third but she pushed his hand away and opened her eyes. "Oh my god," she panted.
Francis grinned and stuck his fingers in his mouth, sucking off her taste as she watched. Then he kissed her again. "Be right back."
It had been a long time since he'd had to rush out of a room to jerk off. He stumbled into the bathroom and shoved his pants down, came fast and hard in his hand after only a few strokes. For a moment he just stood there, catching his breath. When his head had cleared, he took in the pants around his ankles and the semen all over his hand and laughed softly at himself. He felt good and it was more than just a post-orgasmic high.
It was happiness.
He found Grace sitting on the edge of the bed when he walked out of the bathroom. She gave him a sweet, sleepy smile and tilted her face up to his. He kissed her cheeks and chin, reddened by his stubble, then her forehead, and finally her nose. "That was fun," he said. "We should do it again sometime."
"Maybe after I've had some IV fluids." She leaned back slightly to examine the dressing on his shoulder. "How is it now?"
Never one to miss an opportunity, he bent his head and tried to peer down her t-shirt. "Better," he told her, as he stretched out the neck for a clearer view. "Much better."
She swatted his hand away. "I'm talking about your wound, Francis, not my breasts. It's not as though you didn't just see them."
"Some things you never get tired of looking at. Like great art. Or re-runs of The L Word."
"Great art and The L Word. I'm flattered. Come to bed, Francis."
"I think I had a dream once that began like this," he said, as he switched off the light and crawled in beside her.
She shifted pillows and limbs until they were both comfortable. "Shh. No more talking. Sleep now."
"You're so bossy."
"Mmm. You love it," she murmured.
He listened to her steady, even breathing, and felt the faint myoclonic spasms of her muscles as she fell asleep. She was warm beside him, holding him steady, in place. Just as she always had.
"I do love it," he told her softly in the dark. "I love you."