Until he revealed himself to me last night, I’d never seen all of Oliver Leonardo Cucinelli. Not like I’m seeing him now.
I can’t help but feel even his complete nakedness barely scratches the surface of the man he is, and I want so desperately to be given the full, unfiltered view.
Sadly, that gift is neither mine to give nor mine to take.
He steps into the tub with obvious hesitation.
“I put Epsom salts in the water,” I warn. “They’ll really sting your skin before they soothe the tenderness.”
He nods but remains silent as he slowly, slowly, slowly lowers himself into the water. The moment his limp noodle hits the surface, he winces. His biceps bulge as he holds himself up, gradually acclimating to the sensations before finally sinking to a fully seated position. He sighs and closes his eyes, relaxing back against the tub with his arms spread out on the sides.
“Okay?” I question, studying him for signs of lingering unease.
“This is nice,” he murmurs. “You were right. It hurts at first, but then it is wonderful.”
All his naked, wet muscles on display in this tub are wonderful, but I don’t want to overstay my welcome. I’m sure he needs this as much as I do. “The longer you can stay in, the better you’ll feel afterward. Try to make it at least ten minutes but twenty would be much better.”
I slide toward the edge of the tub to get out.
His eyes pop open. “You’re leaving. Does the sight of me disgust you so much now?”
“The sight of you is the furthest thing from disgusting,” I tell him in all honesty. “I don’t want you to be disgusted by the idea of both our filth contaminating the water. I’ll get out, so you can relax.”
“I am reminding myself that the hydrophilic micellar properties of soap trap the naturally occurring oils from our bodies within their spheres, so there is actually no dirt contaminating the water.”
“There’s no soap in this water,” I blurt. “Only Epsom salts.”
His eyes widen, but he tries so hard to maintain a neutral expression. That level of disgust is impossible to mask though. He swallows thickly. “Can we add some soap?”
“Yes!” I might have been a condescending jerkface in the kitchen, but I can still salvage this bath for him. He’s asking for my help now; I’m not giving it unsolicited. I dive for the bottle of body wash that I brought over from my condo and pour thick streams of it into the water. I swish my hands around, creating bubbles. Just to be really thorough, I grab the bar of Ollie’s soap from the dish built into the wall and lather my hands then slap them against his chest and start rubbing.
He covers my hands with his own, his movement much steadier than mine in spite of being seconds from leaping out of this tub even though I was the one ready to bolt a few moments ago. “Liv, I am far too sore to lose control again, but perhaps it is best if—” He stops mid-sentence then glances between our chests. “Actually, this is a brilliant idea. Continue. I will wash you as well.”
I clean him in a manic frenzy, determined not to focus on all the hard-packed muscle beneath my fingertips. Lather, wash, rinse, repeat. No time for exploration of everything that’s been out of my reach for so many years.
His touch is also methodical but in an entirely different way. He slides his soapy hands up the length of one arm then the other. His fingers tap delicately along my shoulders like he’s learning the bone structure beneath my skin. He flattens his palms against my collarbone then sweeps down to cover my breasts with his large hands before curving his fingers beneath them as if he’s measuring their density.
“What are you doing?” I whisper, afraid to read any meaning into his examination.
“Desensitizing,” he mumbles absentmindedly. His hands continue to sweep down my sides, sliding across my belly. He directs, “Lean back.”
I do, reclining against the opposite wall of the tub while holding my breath. This was exactly my intent early this morning when I rolled over and bared my ass for him—to help him become used to the sight of my naked body which he admitted makes him feel out of control. Not that I don’t want Ollie to lose control with me, but I don’t want him to feel guilty or frazzled about it. After the way I talked to him in the kitchen, I don’t dare admit my derailed intentions now.
This is much more natural for us. I support him when he tells me what he needs. The coping techniques are all his own; I simply make suggestions if he asks for my input. He rarely does, but I’ve learned so much about him over time. I overstepped my bounds this morning on multiple counts by implying he’s anything less than capable of managing himself. Oliver manages himself far better than I ever could.
He lifts one of my legs out of the water, his hands slipping and sliding along the length until he encircles my ankle with one hand and pulls in a heavenly massaging motion to the tips of my toes. He repeats this process on the other side.
My eyes are drifting closed more often than not, sighs I can’t suppress falling from my lips. Oliver might be an animal in the bedroom, but this is the kind of intimacy I crave from him. The sort of touch I might be misunderstanding again.
“Does that feel good?” he murmurs, his thumbs pressing into the delicate arch of my foot.
“Yes,” I whisper, afraid to open my eyes and see the truth in his. “Please, don’t stop.”
“May I move to a different area to explore?”
“Yes.”
Water sloshes around my shoulders and chest with his movements. I open my eyes to find him sitting in the middle of the tub like I had when he first stepped in. He wraps his hands around my hips and hauls my butt into his lap, my legs spread out around his waist.
“I will be very gentle,” he promises.
I brace for impact, but it never comes.
His hands spread wide against my stomach. “It is very easy to imagine you pregnant with my child. It makes me happy to picture it in my mind. I have obviously not been clear enough about this. I am prepared for all the hard work that raising a baby requires. I do not want to inseminate you then have no role in my child’s life. I do not want to donate my sperm to you then feel the need to hack more bank accounts should another man throw you away as has happened in the past. If I am going to put a bird in your oven, then my expectation is that I will be the only man in your life going forward.” He tips his head to the side. “Unless we have a son, of course.”
“Ollie, I—”
He places a hand in the air to hold off my words. “Please, let me finish. I am trying to be as clear as possible in order to avoid any more miscommunication. You stated that you wish to be my first choice rather than my last resort. I am sorry to inform you that you are indeed my last resort, Liv.”
My heart crumbles.
He goes on, unaware of my tears as he continues to stare at my stomach like he can put a baby in there without having to do anything else. “I will forego any amount of pleasure for the rest of my life in order for you to remain with me.”
“I don’t want that for you!” I cry. “I don’t want you to be without the pleasure you crave!”
“I will not lose anything that I am not completely prepared to go without. I am hoping to gain the things that I will live for.”