Chapter 12: Scars and Steam
The silence after was a living thing, warm and thick as honey. It stretched, filled only with the slowing cadence of their breath and the distant sound of a car passing on the wet street outside. Gino’s hand continued its idle journey up and down Kate’s spine, over the ridges of vertebrae, the faint, silvery lines of old, faded scars he didn’t ask about. Each one felt like a secret he was being allowed to keep.
He shifted, and a twinge from the mark on his face brought the world back into sharper focus. The room was cooling. Their skin was beginning to dry, leaving a faint, salty tightening behind.
“We’re a sticky mess,” he murmured into her hair.
She made a small, protesting sound, burrowing deeper against him. “Don’t care. Comfy.”
He smiled against her scalp. “You will when you try to peel yourself off these sheets later. Come on.”
In one smooth motion, he sat up, taking her with him. She yelped, her arms locking around his neck as he swung his legs off the bed and stood, cradling her against his chest. Her body was a delightful, boneless weight.
“Gino, I can walk,” she laughed, though she made no move to get down.
“I know.” He carried her out of the bedroom, down the short hall, and into the small bathroom. He set her down gently on the bath mat, her feet touching the cool vinyl. She wobbled, and he kept a firm arm around her waist.
The bathroom was cozy, a sunlit nook in the mornings, but now shadowed in the late afternoon. He leaned past her to turn on the shower, twisting the knobs until a spray erupted from the nozzle, steaming immediately. He tested the temperature with his hand, then adjusted it until the humid heat began to fog the mirror above the sink.
The steam wrapped around them, a new kind of intimacy. He reached for the hem of his t-shirt—the one he’d pulled on after returning from his father’s—and tugged it off over his head. He did it without ceremony, but he watched her watch him. Her eyes tracked the movement of his shoulders, the definition of his stomach. There was no fear in her gaze now, only a tired, appreciative curiosity. He unbuttoned his jeans, pushed them and his boxers down, and stepped out of them.
He was completely bare before her, under the harsh, honest light of the bathroom bulb. The water pounded behind the curtain. He saw her take him in, all of him, and he didn’t flinch. He had nothing to hide from her. Not his body, not the fresh red mark on his face, not the old, faded bruises of a different life that sometimes still bloomed on his ribs in yellow and green.
Her turn. He hooked a finger under the strap of her tank top, which she’d pulled back on after their last round. “Your turn,” he echoed her earlier words, his voice low and gravelly.
She bit her lip, a flicker of that old self-consciousness returning. Then she nodded, a small, decisive movement. She raised her arms. He gathered the soft fabric and lifted it, drawing it up and over her head, mussing her hair. She stood before him then, just as bare. The steam coated her skin in a fine, pearlescent sheen.
He pulled back the floral shower curtain, its plastic rings scraping along the rod, and guided her in first. The hot water hit her shoulders and she gasped, a pleasant shock, before stepping fully under the stream. He followed, closing the curtain behind them, enclosing them in a roaring, white noise world.
The space was small. Their bodies had to negotiate. Water sluiced over them, plastering her hair to her skull, running in rivers down the planes of his chest. He reached for a bottle of generic shampoo, squeezed a dollop into his palm, and without a word began to work it into her hair.
His fingers were strong, massaging her scalp in firm, circular motions. Her eyes drifted shut, a soft moan escaping her lips. This was different. This was care. He rinsed the suds away, tenderly tipping her head back under the spray so none got in her eyes. He conditioned her hair with the same methodical attention, his fingers combing through the tangled lengths.
But as the conditioner sat, his hands didn’t stop. They drifted. They skimmed the slope of her neck, the line of her collarbone. He turned her gently to face him, his palms sliding down her back, over the swell of her rear, pulling her flush against him so the water cascaded over both of them. The heat was everywhere, outside and in.
He bent his head, capturing her mouth under the spray. The kiss was wet and deep, tasting of chlorine and her. One hand remained splayed on the small of her back, possessive and steadying. The other drifted around her hip, fingertips tracing the crease where her thigh met her body.
She sighed into the kiss, melting against him. His touch was insistent, a low-grade current of want that hadn't fully shorted out. His fingers danced lower, through the wet, dark curls, seeking the heat he knew so well now.
She broke the kiss with a wet, breathless laugh, ducking her head against his chest. “Gino,” she mumbled into his skin.
He hummed, his fingers not stopping their gentle, probing exploration. He found her still swollen, sensitive from earlier. She shuddered.
He kissed the top of her wet head. His hands were everywhere. One massaged the taut muscle of her shoulder, the other continued its intimate caress. He turned her again, his front to her back, his arms wrapping around her waist from behind. He nuzzled the side of her neck, his teeth grazing her earlobe as his hand slid between her legs from behind. The angle was new, his touch possessive in its totality. He held her pinned against him, the water beating on her chest and his forearms.
“Gino,” she gasped again, her head lolling back against his shoulder. Her hands came up to grip his wrists, not to pull him away, but to hold on. “Can’t a girl have a break?” she giggled, the sound watery and bright, bouncing off the tiles.
He chuckled, a low vibration she felt through her back. He didn’t stop. His fingers moved with a lazy, knowing rhythm. “Nope.” He nipped her earlobe playfully. “You started this. With your ‘my turn’ business. Now it’s my turn again. Indefinitely.”
She laughed, a pure, unburdened sound that seemed to merge with the spray. But the laugh caught in her throat as his touch grew more specific, more intent. Her knuckles were white where she gripped his arms. The pleasure was a slow, building wave, different from the frantic peaks of before. This was a luxurious drowning.
He held her through it, feeling every tremor, every clench against his fingers. When her knees finally buckled, he held her up easily, his arms like steel bands around her midsection. He turned her to face him, her body limp and pliant. Water streamed down her face, or maybe it was tears of release. He couldn’t tell and it didn’t matter. He kissed her eyelids, her cheeks, her mouth.
He finally reached for the bar of soap. He lathered his hands and began to wash her with a focus that was almost religious. Every inch. The backs of her knees. The arch of each foot. The hollow of her throat. He was mapping her again, cleansing not just skin but memory, his touch a soft eraser on the ghosts of other, harder hands. She let him, her own arms hanging loosely at her sides, her trust a palpable, dizzying thing.
When he was done, he rinsed her clean. Only then did he quickly, efficiently, wash himself. He shut off the water. The sudden silence was ringing.
He pushed back the curtain. The bathroom was a sauna, the mirror a foggy gray slate. He grabbed a towel, a big, soft one from the rack, and wrapped her in it first, rubbing vigorously until her skin glowed pink. He used a second towel on himself, a quick, rough scrub.
He led her, wordless, back to her bedroom. They didn’t dress. They simply fell into the bed, onto the cool side of the sheets, their damp hair streaking the pillows. She curled into him, her head on his chest, her leg thrown over his. The red mark on his face was stark against the white pillowcase.
Outside, the early winter evening had settled in, painting the sky a deep indigo. A streetlight flickered on, casting elongated shadows of bare branches across the ceiling.