Xavier turns off the spigot and grabs a towel to dry his hands on, then I feel him by my side. It’s a hot day. We’re both sweaty and stink of horses I’m sure—you sort of become desensitized to the smell when you’re surrounded by it all day, but still I feel self-conscious when he wraps his arm around my waist and starts walking with me back to the house like that.
It’s a position that seems like it would be awkward—and it has been when the few boyfriends I’ve had in the past have attempted anything like it. Hell, even holding hands with other guys has been uncomfortable. But somehow Xavier just fits my body into his and, in spite of our height differences, he makes it work. He takes command of my stride and just seems to, I don’t know, absorb me into him. Take me into his sphere so that I’m stepping when he steps and if there are any fumbles, his strong arm around my waist is always there to smoothly guide me over them.
Before I know it, we’re at the back door.
And like normal, he leads me to the sink to wash my hands. I extend them just like always and let him squirt the soap into them. Then I wait while his large, calloused fingers move over my hands, which are beginning to slowly develop callouses of their own.
Life with Xavier has become a series of rituals.
His fingers intertwine briefly with mine as the soap turns foamy. His hands are so much larger than mine. They overwhelm my small ones. Just like everything about him. He overwhelms me.
I’m glad when he urges our conjoined hands under the running water to clean away the soap. I’m not sure why today things feel different. So much more… I don’t know—intense? Or… vibrant, maybe, if that’s the right word.
Like I said, my life with Xavier has become one of rituals and routines. That’s been something of a safe haven for me. When there’s routine, you can try to lose yourself in the monotony of it. Granted, I’m never truly able to do that with Xavier because he’s always changing things up, surprising me at all times of day with his strange desires and ways of pleasuring me. But still, there was a basic assumption to the way the day would go.
But now… It’s stupid. I just rode a horse. And got my period.
Nothing has changed.
I’m making something out of nothing.
Except that after dinner, after Xavier exchanges my tampon—which yes, he insists on doing himself again—we take a shower instead of a bath.
Xavier is no less attentive during the shower. And he’s extra gentle.
“Such a good girl,” he whispers, massaging my scalp as he washes my hair with a honeysuckle scented shampoo. “You handled Sugar so beautifully today. I felt honored to witness the trust you showed her.”
He pulls me against his warm chest, his hands still in my hair as the shower sprays my lower back.
I scoff, my neck feeling warm from his praise. “I didn’t really do anything. It was just Sugar. It was natural.”
His hands drop from my hair suddenly and he wraps his arms around me, pulling me into him. Like… hugging me. Is Xavier actually hugging me right now?
“Exactly,” he breathes out, his chin notched on my head. For another long moment, he just holds me there. And then, like the moment never happened, he retreats and goes back to shampooing my hair.
The rest of the shower continues. He washes my shoulders, my back, my rump. He lifts my arm and soaps my armpit and shaves me as carefully as always. But when he moves around to my breasts, he doesn’t massage or squeeze them. He merely washes them with brisk efficiency.
Usually this is the point when our bathing time starts to get erotic.
I think surely when he pumps soap into his hands and taps my legs for me to spread them that things will start getting in
timate.
Nope.
He just shaves my legs and then… well, you know.
Then he quickly soaps himself down and washes his hair.
Then.
He.
Turns.
The.
Water.