Chapter 2: The Aftermath of Intimacy
The water had gone lukewarm, tracing chilly paths down their skin as they rose from the bath. Julian moved first, heaving himself onto the ledge with a grunt, water sluicing from his body. He reached back without looking, and Evelyn placed the thick, cotton towel in his hand. Their silence was comfortable now, punctuated only by the drip of water and the shift of terry cloth over skin.
She watched him dry himself, the methodical, efficient strokes over his chest and arms, the more careful patting over his legs. There was a practiced ritual to it, a self-reliance she was careful not to interrupt. She dried herself quickly, then fetched his wheelchair, lining it up perfectly. He transferred into it with a single, smooth motion, his wet hair dripping onto the towel she’d draped over his shoulders.
“I feel like a rescued sea lion,” he muttered, pushing towards the bedroom.
“A very dignified sea lion,” she offered, following him, her own towel snug around her body. “The kind with a trust fund.”
He shot a glance over his shoulder, a real smile touching his eyes. “That’s the only kind I associate with.”
The bedroom was a cavern of soft, golden light, the last of the afternoon sun straining through the sheer curtains and casting everything in a hazy, dreamlike glow. The enormous bed, with its emerald velvet headboard, looked like a realm unto itself. Julian parked beside it, locking the brakes with a decisive click.This part was harder. The bed was high, a plush island. He positioned his chair at an angle, gripped the mattress, and began the laborious process of lifting his body up and over.His biceps strained, cords standing out in his neck. Evelyn didn’t hover, but she didn’t look away either. She stood ready, a presence, until he finally collapsed onto the center of the bed with a heavy exhale. He shifted, pulling his legs up onto the duvet with his hands.
Then he looked at her, propped on his elbows.“Your turn.”
She let her towel drop. The cool air of the room raised goosebumps on her skin, but his gaze was warm, tracing her curves in the honeyed light. She crawled onto the bed, the linen crisp and cool against her knees, and settled beside him, facing him. Her hand found its way to his chest again, over the steady, strong beat of his heart.He covered her hand with his. The room was so quiet she could hear the faint rustle of the curtains.“Evelyn,” he began, his voice low. “What we just did… in the bath. That was…” He trailed off, his thumb rubbing circles on her knuckles.“I need you to know you don’t have to… perform. To prove a point.”
She shifted closer. “What point am I proving?”
“That you want this.” His gaze drifted from her eyes to the pillow.“That you want me. My family said you were too kind for your own good. That you’d tie yourself to a wreck out of some… noble impulse.”
A flare of anger, bright and hot, lit in her chest. Not at him, but at the invisible, judging voices in his head. “Your family,” she said, her voice measured, “can go to hell.”
A startled laugh burst from him. He looked back at her.
“I married you,” she said, “because the thought of not marrying you made my entire future feel like a gray, empty room. I married you because you’re the only person who’s ever really seen me. Not the agreeable gallery girl, but me. The one who wants to throw paint at a canvas and swear at the news and make love to my husband until we’re both stupid with it.”
His breath caught. The defensive shield in his eyes cracked.She leaned in and kissed him, not softly, but with a deep, convincing pressure. When she pulled back, she took his hand. She guided it down, over the dip of her waist, the curve of her hip, until his fingers were nestled in the damp warmth between her thighs.
She was soaked.The evidence was undeniable, slick and hot against his probing touch.
His eyes widened, the blue darkening almost to black. “Christ, Evie.”
“That’s not pity,” she whispered, holding his gaze, guiding his finger through her folds.“That’s want. Do you believe me now?”
A groan ripped from his throat. He answered by kissing her again, hungry and devouring, his hand moving against her with a newfound, desperate confidence. She arched into his touch, a small, sharp cry escaping her lips. She could feel him hardening against her thigh, a promising, insistent pressure.She broke the kiss, breathless. “I want to feel you.”
He understood.He fell back onto the pillows, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His erection stood against his stomach, full and flushed. There was a flicker of anxiety in his eyes—the logistics, his own perceived passivity—but she silenced it with a look.
She swung a leg over his hips, kneeling over him. The afternoon light gilded her skin, her hair a chaotic, chestnut waterfall around her shoulders. She reached between them, positioning him, the blunt head of his cock nudging against her entrance.
“Look at me,” she said, and he did, his gaze locked on hers as she began to sink down.It was a slow, burning stretch. She took him inch by inch, her body yielding, accepting, a gasp catching in her throat as he filled her completely. She stilled, seated fully on him, letting them both adjust to the profound, intimate clasp.Julian’s hands flew to her hips, his grip almost painful. His jaw was taut, his eyes shimmering.He looked utterly overwhelmed.
“Okay?” she breathed, rotating her hips in a tiny, experimental circle.A strangled “yes” was all he could manage.
She began to move. A slow, rolling rise and fall, using the muscles in her thighs and core.It was a different rhythm than before, deeper, more consuming. She set a steady, relentless pace, her hands braced on his chest for leverage. The room filled with the sound of their ragged breathing, the soft creak of the bed, the wet, sensual slide of their joining.
“You feel…” he gasped, “...incredible. So tight.”
She leaned forward, changing the angle, and he hit a spot that made her vision blur. “Julian…”
His hands slid from her hips to cup her rear, urging her on, his own hips managing a shallow, upward thrust in time with her descent.It was a clumsy, perfect synchronization. The intellectual awareness of mechanics dissolved into pure, raw sensation.
“Don’t worry,” she murmured, her voice thick with pleasure, as she picked up speed.“Don’t think.Just feel me.”
He obeyed. His head dropped back, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment before forcing them open to watch her. To watch the woman he loved, her face flushed with effort and ecstasy, riding him, taking her pleasure from his body.Every doubt, every ghost of pity, was incinerated in the heat of this. She was a vision of unguarded need, and she was his.His control shattered. “Evie, I’m close, I’m—”
“Yes,” she chanted, her movements becoming less rhythm and more frantic abandon. “Yes, yes, Julian.”
His release hit him like a wave, a deep, convulsive surge that emptied him into her with a hoarse cry. The intensity of his climax triggered her own; she clenched around him, a high, broken sound tearing from her throat as she pulsed around him, shuddering, falling forward to collapse onto his sweat-slicked chest.They lay fused together, spent and trembling, as the aftershocks subsided. The only light left was a dull, rose-gold smudge on the horizon outside the window.
Eventually, with a soft sigh, she shifted off him, curling into his side. His arm came around her, heavy and possessive.He pressed a kiss to her damp forehead.
“Okay,” he whispered into the quiet, the word carrying the weight of an entire universe of surrendered fear. “I believe you.”
She smiled against his skin, tracing the lines of his collarbone. Outside, the first star of the evening winked into view, a solitary pinprick in the vast, deepening blue. Inside, in the warm, rumpled nest of their marriage bed, there was only the solid, steady proof of their shared breath, and a silence that was finally, perfectly peaceful.