We don’t have sex. Because Abby doesn’t need me to fuck her.
Tonight, she just needs me.
* * *
In the weeks after Abby cried in my arms for little Maisy Adams, things change. Slow and steady and undeniable—the way winter drifts each day into spring. Abby and I still fuck like beastly bunnies every chance we can, but after that night—it’s not all we do.
There’s talk in between the moaning. Actual conversations about everything and nothing, small things and big, embarrassing moments and silly memories. It brings a closeness to our time together—something more intimate than fucking.
And a tenderness.
I’ve always felt protective of Abby, but this is something different—something sweet that feels like cherishing.
We don’t just enjoy each other’s bodies—we enjoy each other.
Like right now, we’re lounging in Abby’s gigantic porcelain tub—it’s late, sometime around two in the morning—a few hours after she finished an eighteen-hour shift at the hospital. I’m not typically a bubble-bath man, but the heated chest-deep water—and the slick, slippery company—might turn me into one. The tub is big enough for us both to stretch out our legs, facing each other, with Abby’s foot clasped in my hands as I massage her poor, aching arch.
I’m preoccupied by the glistening bubbles clinging to her peaked pink nipples. It’s like a tantalizing peep show—as each bubble pops, a little more flesh is revealed. I want to pop them all, clean them off the tight-tipped buds with my tongue, and suck until she begs for mercy.
Later, when I think back about it, I won’t be able to recall how it came up or who posed the question—but we’re talking about our first times.
“Mrs. Sassafras,” I tell Abby, “my mother’s best friend.”
“Your mother’s friend?” Her face scrunches. “That’s wrong, Tommy.”
“Yeah, sort of—but the wrongness only made it better.” I wink.
She covers her face, laughing.
“How old were you?”
“Just shy of sixteen. She was a young widow and my mum would send me over to help her in the garden. She was beautiful, outspoken—an excellent teacher.”
I can tell by her expression that Abby’s still not convinced of Mrs. Sassafras’s redeeming qualities.
“Did your mother every find out?” she asks.
“Christ, no. My mum would’ve ripped her head off her shoulders, and last I heard Mrs. Sassafras was still in fine health.”
“Mrs. Sassafras . . .” Abby shakes her head, chuckling.
I switch to Abby’s other foot, pressing my thumbs into the soft tissue in deep, slow, penetrating circles. Abby’s eyes slide closed and her head tilts, exposing the pretty hollow of her throat. I’ve yet to find a single part of her that’s not scrumptiously pretty.
“Ooooh, that’s nice,” she moans.
And my cock does a spot-on impression of an up-periscope on a submarine.
“Keep moaning like that and I’ll be rubbing a whole lot more than your foot.”
A grin tugs at the corner of her mouth, but her eyes stay gently closed.
“Later. Right now this is everything.” A long, breathy sigh slips from her lips.
We lay quietly for a few moments just like that—cut off from the world, with the fragrant, still steam enclosed around us and warm water droplets sliding on our skin. Abby’s loveliness is one I don’t imagine I’ll ever get tired of looking at—it just grows more intense, more enrapturing, the longer I’m near her.
“What about you?” I wonder softly. “Who had the honor of popping your cherry?”
Some men have issues with a woman’s past—with jealousy—but I’m not one of them. Whoever came before had their moment in the sun—and between her legs—but now they’re gone. History. A memory. No more a threat to me or my place there than a ghost.
What interests me more is Abby—the pieces and parts that make her who she is.
She’s fascinating in her contradictions. A brilliant surgeon with a kind heart for tiny things. A beautiful girl who’s deeply suspicious of anything remotely fun. A confident woman who doesn’t give herself nearly enough credit. A lass who rides a bike with a bell and a basket . . . but only on the very same path each time.
“I bet it was your first serious boyfriend, wasn’t it? Candles and flowers and satin sheets?”
Abby’s grin slowly fades away.
“Not exactly.”
She sits up straighter, slipping her foot from my hand and drawing her knees towards her chest—wrapping her arms around her legs. “Do you know the Liptons? You must’ve heard Nicholas railing about Sir Aloysius in Parliament. He’s frequently on the opposite side of the Queen’s agenda.”
I shake my head. “I make it a point to ignore aristocrats’ conversations—breach of privacy and painfully boring.”
Abby snorts. “Well, Sir Aloysius Lipton is a member of the House of Lords and my father’s law partner. They’re old friends of the family. Their eldest son, Alistair—I had the biggest crush on him forever. He was a few years older than me, all handsome and charming. And I was decidedly . . . not. I was fifteen and awkward and convinced I was incapable of doing anything well.”