Page 59 of Left of Forever

“Please. Don’t sayhard,” he says, toeing off his boots and socks. “Actually, shit, nothing’s gonna help.” He gets visibly more frantic. His eyes dart around rapidly behind his lids, his hands flailing at his sides, and I know—Iknowthat it doesn’t speak well of me as a person that I let myself take a good look at him, but when I do, I feel my own sort of throbbing burn, from my head down to the soles of my feet.

I pick up the half-melted ice cream carton and stick his right hand into it. He immediately scoops some out and brings it to his other palm, where he hesitates in front of where he’s gone fully erect.

“I forgot…” I say to myself, my voice distant. I forgot how big, thick, and built he is, everywhere. That impossibly wide chest. “You’re a little hairier than I remember,” I remark. Still not gray anywhere other than around his temples, though. His hands rub together, vanilla bean melting through his fingers, but they don’t make any move to soothe his grievously hard cock.

“Wren,” he says raggedly, head shaking side to side and his entire body flexing. “I swear on everything. I swear on my life I wouldn’t ask, but I’m s-scared to touch it in case there’s anything left on my hands.”

I should consider hesitating. I don’t. I reach in and wet three fingers in the ice cream and carefully slide them along his flesh. A noise from somewhere deep inside him echoes through his bones. His skin feels like hot silk here. I tip the heavy length of him up more so I can spread some around the whole thing. “Thank god it wasn’t rocky road or something, am I right?” I say, lightheaded.

He rumbles out a laugh that cuts off in a whine. “It’s helping, at least.” He swallows heavily, shifting his weight on his feet, hands dripping ice cream onto the deck. I’m careful not to pump him, and still he’s… he’s painfully solid against my fingertips, a bead of moisture at the tip.

“Ellis, you have to try to soften, I think.” My swallow is audible.

“I’m trying,” he says, then tries to slit open an eye and promptly shuts it again. “But I can still hear you and smell you, and I think my body just, ah fuck”—he grimaces as his cock twitches eagerly—“knows you.”

It’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen, his shaft glisteningwith melted ice cream. I can’t decide if I want to dissolve into a fit of hilarity, hug him and comfort him, or fall to my knees and lick him clean.

“Here, get in the bath and wash off while I look up what else we can do,” I say. I help him step in, and he lowers himself into the tepid water. “We’ll do another round with the ice cream if we need to.”

He grips the edge of the tub stiffly, big body squeezed in tight. “Could you just… Would you mind just leaving me here for a bit?” he asks. “Alone. I think I’ll be able to calm down if I don’t know you’re right there.”

I mark the hard set of his mouth and the lines between his brows. His still-clenched eyes and his white knuckles on the lip of the tub. It’s clear how much he hates this, being exposed and vulnerable and not in control this way. But it’s more than his need to calm down. He wants to hide, too.

“All right,” I reply quietly, then walk back inside and sit on the bed.

I google remedies for “pepper dick and fingers,” which, unsurprisingly, yields mixed results. Once I figure out the correct terminology is “capsaicin burn,” I’m on the right track.

I try not to let myself be hurt or bothered by him wanting to conceal himself—his pain from me. I’d like to not make it more meaningful than it is.

I do, anyway.

It’s just that it’s aggravating how hypocritical this is right now. Every time we take a chance and lean into trusting each other, we come out stronger by the end of it. It’s pulling away, withholding our hurts that destroyed us before. Being too damncareful. Since I let myself commit to this trip and its objectives, I haven’t withheld much of anything.

And I get it. I do. He’s in pain. I can practically hear the thoughts churning in his head. He’s put in so much effort to plan this, to make it go just right. He’s been committing, too, but he’s also been in the driver’s seat. Today has been out of his control since we checked in, and now things have gone awry, and he’s trying to take back what he can.

Well, fuck that. We haven’t come this far just to come this far.

I dig into my toiletry bag to find the bottle I need and walk back out onto the porch.

He’s managed to get his eyes open, now, and cuts me a wary, bloodshot look.

“Getting better?” I ask.

He nods. “Getting there.”

“Let me help,” I say.

He closes his eyes like he’s stung and lets his head fall back, exposing the long lines of his strong throat. “Let me hold on to a shred of my pride, Wren. Please.”

“No.”

Now his eyes fly open and find me again. I untie my top and let it fall away. He whispers a curse.

“Oil apparently helps break down the chemical from the peppers, too,” I explain, nipples tightening under his stare.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice rough with longing. “You won’t fit.”

I let my smile heat. “What’d you say to me the first time I said you wouldn’t fit? We’ll make it work.” I peel down my skirt and panties and step out of them.