The Unhoneymooners

“Now,” Diana says, walking around the table to lift the sheet for one of us to climb under, “which of you would like to learn first, and which wants to receive the massage?”

Ethan’s answering silence has to mean that he’s doing the same mental calculation I am: Do we have to stay?

Particularly given his exit line about reacting to seeing me naked, I have no idea how this question shakes down in Ethan’s brain, but given my newfound fascination with his collarbones, chest hair, and abdominals, I’m actually tempted to go through with it. And I’m wondering whether it would be easier to receive a massage first so I don’t have to touch him and pretend to be unaffected. That said, one look at his enormous, strong hands and I’m not sure having those fingers oil-slicked and rubbing all over my naked back would be that much easier.

“I’ll learn first,” I say, just as Ethan says, “I’ll massage her first.”

Our wide eyes meet.

“No,” I say, “you can climb in. I’ll, um, do the rubbing.”

He laughs uncomfortably. “Seriously, it’s cool. I’ll massage first.”

“I’m going to grab some towels,” Diana says gently, “and give you time to decide.”

Once she’s gone, I turn to him. “Get in the sheets, Elmo.”

“I’d really rather do the . . .” He mimes squeezing, like he’s going to honk my boobs.

“I don’t think there will be any of that.”

“No, I just mean—” He growls, wiping a hand down his face. “Just get on the table. I’ll turn around so you can slip in. Naked, or whatever.”

It’s dim in here, but I can tell he’s blushing. “Are you—oh, my God, Ethan, are you worried about getting a boner on the table?”

He lifts his chin, swallowing. It’s a good five seconds before he answers. “Actually, yeah.”

And with that one single word, my heart gives an aching jab against my breastbone. His response was so honest and real that my throat becomes tight at the thought of teasing him.

“Oh,” I say, and lick my lips. My mouth is suddenly so dry. I look over at the table and feel my skin grow a little clammy. “Okay. I’ll get in the sheets. Just—I mean, just don’t make fun of my body.”

He goes totally silent, totally still, before whispering an impassioned “I would never do that.”

“I mean, sure,” I say, feeling acutely the way my voice comes out a little strangled, “except when you have.”

He opens his mouth to reply, brow furrowed in deep concern, but Diana returns with her stack of towels. Ethan huffs out an incredulous breath through his nose, and even when I look away, I can tell he’s trying to get my eyes back on his face. I’ve always appreciated my body—I even sort of like my new curves—but I don’t want to be in a position where I feel like anyone has to touch me and doesn’t want to.

Then again, if I don’t trust him and don’t want him touching me, I could just tell Diana we aren’t up for this today.

So why don’t I?

Is the truth that I really, really want Ethan’s hands on me?

And if he doesn’t want to, he can tell her himself, right?

I look at him, searching for any sign that he’s uncomfortable, but his sweet blush is gone, and instead he wears a look of heated determination. Our eyes meet for one . . . two . . . three seconds, and then his gaze drops to my lips, to my neck, and down the entire length of my body. His brow quirks, lips part a little, and I catch how his breathing picks up. When he meets my eyes again, I hear what he’s trying to tell me: I like what I see.

Flushed, I fumble with the tie of my robe; we’re supposed to be married, which means we’re supposed to know what the other looks like naked, and although we definitely got flashes in the bathroom on the boat, I’m not sure I’m ready for Ethan to get such a lingering, steady look when I drop the robe and hop up on the table. Thankfully, as Diana holds the sheet up and turns her face away to give me privacy, Ethan also makes a show of fiddling with his robe tie. Quickly, I drop my robe and scurry into the warm, soft cocoon.

“We’ll start with you facedown,” she says in a gentle, soothing voice. “Ethan, come stand on this side of the table.”

I roll onto my stomach as gracefully as I can, fitting my head into the foam face rest. I am shaking, excited, nervous, and so warm all over that the pleasure of the heated blankets has quickly worn off and I want to kick them to the floor.

Diana is talking softly to Ethan, about how to fold back the sheet, laughing about how if we do this at home there’s no need for the same kind of modesty. He laughs, too; charming, breezy Ethan is back, and I admit it is easier like this, staring at the floor instead of making ey

e contact with the man I still hate but also suddenly want to fuck into a coma.

I hear a pump, then the wet sound of oil on hands, Diana’s quiet “About this much,” and then, “I start here.”