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He owed me one after scolding me so meanly.
“Why did you yell at me?” I asked, tears suddenly brimming. “You’ve never been that cross with me before.”
His nostrils flared.
I waited for him to answer.
He didn’t.
I hated his silence.
I hated his pain.
I hated that he’d drifted to a dark, dark place I couldn’t reach.
With a sharp inhale, he reached for the folded ends of my towel and spread them open.
“Hey.” I batted his hands away.
Too late.
Cool air licked my highly sensitive skin.
Another flush of peculiar numbness and want.
I relaxed into it.
My body floated down and down, spiralling deeper and deeper until I hit a shadowy, silky bottom.
Sleep cloyed at my eyelashes, sudden and immense, making me smile with relief.
Sleep was better. So, so much better than lust.
“That’s it, just…relax,” Henri whispered.
I sighed as something comforting soaked into my skin. The barest-there strokes. The gentlest touch. The way he touched me reminded me how Krish would hold his drink at dinner if Mum forgot and gave him a glass cup instead of his preferred plastic one.
He’d hold it as if he’d break it just by breathing.
He’d cradle it as if it were the most precious, wonderous thing. Nothing else existed for him. Just him and that cup—half terrified of breaking it, half mystified by its fragility.
That’s how Henri’s touching me.
Like I’m a cup.
I giggled for no apparent reason.
“Jesus, that stuff is strong,” he muttered under his breath. His fingers traced over my ribs, adding a thick layer of cream.
My entire body turned ticklish.
My giggle became a laugh. “Stop. God, stop!”
“Fuck.” Ripping his hands off me, he shook the bed with his horror. “I didn’t mean…” He sighed heavily. “I’m sorry. God, I’m—”
“For what?” I frowned.
“For hurting you.”
