Birthday Girl(73)

“Yeah,” I say, barely audible.

I pull out one of my rubber bands and start to take apart a braid, my skin is burning. He’s looking at me.

I close my eyes for a moment, absorbing it.

I want him to look at me.

I hear him chuckle, though, and I open my eyes to see him reach over and take my other braid in his hand. He raises the hose and rinses off the tail.

Oh, the mud…

“Yeah, thanks for that, by the way.” I force a sarcastic tone.

“You asked for it.”

Yes. I did. He’s fun to tease.

My scalp tickles at his touch, and while I’m no longer relaxed, I’m smiling again. He’s only touching the ends of a few hairs, and I’m lightheaded.

I swallow the lump in my throat and slowly turn, whispering, “Would you check my back?”

I wait a moment, my pulse racing in my ears and the sound of the water spilling from the hose onto the ground.

But then I feel him. The soft, barely there brushes of his fingers across my shirt and the cool water seeping through the fabric as he clears away the mud.

He’s so quiet, and it’s so loud, it’s throbbing in my ears.

At first, he’s quick. I hug my arms to the front of my body, nervous like this is the first time I’ve ever been touched.

But then it gets slower, his hand staying on my shoulder blade longer and growing in pressure as he presses into my curves and runs his fingers down the slope of my neck, my spine, and then my hips.

The pulse between my legs begins to throb, and my eyelids flutter.

His hand hits bare skin at my hip, lingering for a moment, and I breath out, so nervous right now but excited.

I’m not imagining this. I’m not imagining the way his touch feels.

Gulping, I slowly look to the side, seeing his form over my shoulder, and I reach down, grabbing the hem of my shirt, hesitating only a moment before I pull it over my head. Then quickly, I reach over and pick up a clean towel off the stairs, hugging it to the front of my body.

I want him to look at me, but I’m so scared he’ll push me away.

I drop my soaked shirt and stand there, fear and desire eating away any rational thought. For a while, the steady stream of water just falls, burrowing a hole into the grass below.

And then, it’s on me. Cascading over my shoulder, down the blades of my back, as his hand follows its fall, clearing away any dirt still lingering. I close my eyes, dizzy.

It’s warm at my back, and I realize he’s closer now, towering over me from behind.

I hear him swallow. “Towel’s going to get wet,” he says, his voice raspy.

A smile pulls at my lips, but I don’t let it out.

Opening my eyes, I pull the towel away from body and toss it back on the stairs, excitement like an electric current under every inch of my skin. I don’t remember ever wanting something this much.

He cleans my back, my arms, and tilts my head for me side to side to make sure there’s no dirt there, as well. I finish unbraiding my hair and comb my fingers through it, feeling some wet strands mixed with the dry ones.

I want to see him and know what he’s thinking, but I’m afraid to break the spell, and if I look at him, we might both get scared off.

And this feels so good.

“Are my legs clean?” I ask over my shoulder.

I know I’m being wicked, but I don’t want him to be done yet.

It only takes a moment, but then I feel the water hit the backs of my legs, and slowly, he takes a knee, trying to get a better vantage point.

I close my eyes again, diving deep into my head where everything I want in this moment but am too afraid to voice is safe. It’s not only his touch. It’s how he does it. The long, languorous caresses down my thighs and the way the tips of his fingers trail just a centimeter higher than they probably should. And how he tries to avoid the insides of my legs, but he keeps flirting close like he wants to go there and is struggling to hold himself back.

He finishes my calves and my feet, and I finally look over my shoulder and down at him.

“My turn,” I say.

He raises his gaze, his chest moving up and down in shallow breaths. His lips are parted, and there are a hundred different emotions in his eyes. But I recognize the same ones I’m having. Fear and longing, turmoil and need.

We want it, but we know we shouldn’t.

I turn and take the hose from him, and his gaze falls to my breasts right there for him and only covered by my thin, pink lacy bra with roses on it.

I’m a girly-girl at heart, and I think he likes that.

Without a word, he rises and stares at me, unflinching as I bring up the hose and start to rewash him. Neither of us had much mud on us in the first place. We could easily make it into the house and to the showers, and we both know it.

I run my hand over the smooth skin of his chest, tracing the mural he has inked across his shoulder, pec, and down his arm.

I don’t look into his eyes, but I know he’s watching my face.

“Did you get all these tattoos when you were younger?” I ask quietly.

“Most of them,” he says, raspy. “Back when I didn’t have other things to spend my money on.”

“Do you regret any of them?” I see mud under his ear and arch up to my tiptoes, putting us chest to chest.

“No, I…” He stops, his heavy breath falling on my cheek as I hover close.