I bite back the immediate recant of my instant agreement about trust, because
a razor blade on my nether regions should allow for a reconsideration of the question. And I know he can see my hesitation because his eyes ask me again.
He wants to shave me. I’m nervous but at the same time feel a rush of heat between my thighs at how hot the simple idea is. I nod my head ever so slightly, my eyes on his, because yes, I’ve been married to the man for six years, trust him with every part of me . . . but shaving me? That’s a whole helluva lot of trust.
And the old me would be massively embarrassed about sitting on the lip of the bathtub spread-eagle in broad daylight while my husband squirts shaving lotion into his hand, but for some reason I’m not. The world has seen me naked like this by now. However, the idea is so damn intimate and personal that when I look down to watch his hand disappear below my belly seconds before the cool, moist lotion is spread into the crease of my thighs, I feel a new connection with him, a new intimacy that restores some of what was lost with the video.
He turns the faucet of the tub on and lets it run a bit as he warms the razor under its flow. He looks back at me with an encouraging smile in place and then slowly moves the blade below the swell of my belly. We both hold our breaths as he begins to shave me; the only sound in the room is the soft scrape of metal against flesh and the trickle of water into an empty tub.
After a few minutes I allow myself to relax, the inability to see what he’s doing only serving to heighten both the intensity and the sensuality of the whole act. He continues to shave, face etched in concentration on areas I can’t see but can sure as hell feel. And it’s not the bite of pain I expected. Instead it’s the soft press of his fingers as he pushes my skin this way and that way. It’s the warm water as he cups it and lets it fall over my sex. It’s the way his fingertips feather ever so lightly over my seam to wipe away the excess shaving cream that doesn’t wash away with the trickle of water.
These things add together, build into an intense experience I never would have expected and yet don’t want him to stop. We’ve been disconnected this week, so stressed about the video and the repercussions, that we haven’t even paused to pay much attention to each other besides the verbal, Are you all right? And How are you doing?
He runs the pad of his finger back down the length of me. In reflex, I push my hips forward some, a nonverbal beg for him to dip his fingers between the lips of my sex so he can discover just how much I want and need him right now. I groan out in frustration when his fingers leave my skin, prompting him to chuckle.
“Is something funny?” I ask him between gritted teeth.
He just shakes his head. “Nope. Just making sure I made that little landing strip you like nice and straight,” he says, tongue between his teeth as he concentrates, oblivious to the sexual torment he is putting me through. But then again, maybe that’s his goal. He can’t be this clueless. He knows my body all too well to know his touch is going to stoke my fires from embers to a wildfire.
“There.” He hmpfs in triumph as he leans back and looks at his handiwork, a smug smirk on his face as he looks up at me. That smug smirk soon turns into a cocky grin once he recognizes the look of libidinous desperation on my face. “What’s wrong?” he asks, feigning ignorance.
He’s definitely toying with me. And hell, I’m all for being played by him. What better way to forget the world outside than lose myself to the skilled hands of my husband?
“Nothing,” I murmur, right before he pulls the hand-held showerhead from its base and stretches the necking so the sprayer faces the delta of my thighs. He turns it on, the pressure of the water creating its own pleasurable friction that causes me to suppress a hiss of desire.
“I think I missed some shaving cream right here,” he says with a concerned look before his fingers touch me again. But this time, they slip between the seam of my pussy and slide up and down the length of it, spreading me apart so the pulse of the water hits my clit. I groan from the sensation as I selfishly offer myself to him by widening my knees and trying to tilt my hips up.
“Good. Got it,” he says as his finger takes a pass over my clit before all touch and water leaves me.
“What?” I yelp, catching that lightning-fast grin of his as he starts to stand up.
“All done,” he says causally, picking up the extra towel on the tub’s edge to pat me dry.
“No, you’re not.”
His amused laugh falls into the silence around us. “Your toes are painted, your pussy is trimmed,” he says, ticking off the tasks on his fingers. “Whatever else could there be to do?” Our eyes lock and then mine slowly drag down the length of his torso as he pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it outside of the bathtub. He nonchalantly undoes his belt and pulls it through the loops, making a show of throwing it aside as well. When he slides his pants and underwear down his hips his dick stands at attention when he straightens up.
“I don’t know,” I say with a lift of my eyebrows and suggestion lacing my tone.
“Okay. I’m going to take a shower then,” he says with a smirk as he starts to step out of the bathtub, making me laugh.
“No, you’re not.” His eyes are back on mine, hungry with desire, and for a split second I wonder why he’s not taking what’s laid out before him when his want is so blatantly plastered on his face—and his body for that matter.
“I’m not?”
“No.”
For a few moments, we stare silently at each other with words unspoken but so much emotion exchanged. And finally I ask what keeps crossing my mind. “I miss you. I want you.” Something flickers in his eyes I can’t read, but I can tell he’s struggling with. “What’s wrong, Colton?”