tten round to washing
his back.
“Whole back,” he says quietly, “with the towel.” He
takes a sharp breath and screws his eyes closed as I
briskly dry him, careful to touch him only with the towel.
He has such an attractive back—broad, sculptured
shoulders, all the small muscles clearly defined. He really
looks after himself. The beautiful sight is marred only by his
scars.
With difficulty, I ignore them and suppress my
overwhelming urge to kiss each and every one. When I
finish he exhales, and I lean forward and reward him with a
kiss on his shoulder. Putting my arms around him, I dry his
stomach. Our eyes meet once more in the mirror, his
expression amused but wary, too.
“Hold this.” I hand him a smaller face towel, and he
“Hold this.” I hand him a smaller face towel, and he
gives me a bemused frown. “Remember in Georgia? You
made me touch myself using your hands,” I add.
His face darkens, but I ignore his reaction and put my
arms around him. Gazing at us both in the mirror—his
beauty, his nakedness, and me with my covered hair—we
look almost Biblical, as if from an Old Testament baroque
painting.
I reach for his hand, which he willingly entrusts to me,
and guide it up to his chest to dry it, sweeping the towel
slowly, awkwardly across his body. Once, twice—then
again. He’s completely immobilized, rigid with tension,
except for his eyes, which follow my hand clasped around
his.
My subconscious looks on with approval, her normally
pursed mouth smiling, and I am the supreme puppet
master. His anxiety ripples off his back in wa一ves, but he
maintains eye contact, though his eyes are darker, more
deadly. Showing their secrets maybe.
Is this a place I want to go? Do I want to confront his
demons?
“I think you’re dry now,” I whisper as I drop my hand,
gazing into the gray depths of his eyes in the mirror. His
breathing is accelerated, lips parted.
“I need you, Anastasia,” he whispers.
“I need you, too.” And as I say the words, I am struck
how true they are. I cannot imagin
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