Miss Behave Read online

  “Hey—Can you stand?” Someone’s stroking my arm. It is Diana. I’m not hallucinating—or if I am, it’s a damn good one .

  “Yeah; yeah. I’m good.” I follow her into the bathroom. There’s an old clawfoot tub under a foggy mirror, a stone washstand, a pair of low stools. I stand stupidly—am I supposed to undress? In front of her ?

  “Hold still .”

  And... She’s unbuttoning my shirt. This is interesting. Under any other circumstances.... “Ow ....”

  “Yeah, I know. Just a minute .”

  I drop my arms obediently so she can pull off my shirt. My pants, I take care of myself. Soon, I’m left in my underwear, shivering on the stone floor .

  “I’ll turn around, while you get in .”

  Probably for the best—this isn’t how I want her to see me naked for the first time, all sick and chilly, covered in gooseflesh. I shimmy out of my briefs fast as I can and step into the tub. Can’t keep a lid on my groan of relief, as I sink into the warm water. Normally, I’m a shower guy, five minutes in and out, but this feels great. Especially when Diana lays a warm towel over my eyes and temples. I drift in the warm dark, feeling the tension ebb away .

  There’s a faint scrape behind me, and I feel clever fingers in my hair, massaging my scalp, my temples, rubbing the pain right out of me. I practically purr when she finds the knots in my neck, starts working them loose. My foolish cock’s starting to show an interest again—always popping up like toast, when nobody needs it. But... Can she even see it from way back there? Probably not .

  I ignore it and settle deeper into the tub. Been forever since I was last touched like this. May as well enjoy it while I can, especially now my headache’s receding to a faint red pulse .

  I must drift off for a while—when I come to myself, the water’s noticeably cooler, and Diana’s working over my biceps, kneading the muscles with more strength than I thought she had. Feels great—my body’s gone loose and boneless. My head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton, but all things considered, I’d call that an improvement .

  “Those are quite some healing hands you got there.” I tilt my head experimentally. When no fireworks go off behind my eyes, I reach up and peel back the cloth. The light makes me blink, but it no longer feels like an assault .

  “Feeling better ?”

  “Much.” I squint a little, trying to make out Diana’s expression. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Probably just tired, dehydrated ....”

  “Overcaffeinated.” She stands up, shaking out her hands. “I was thinking about it, just now. Don’t think I saw you all weekend without a Starbucks cup in your hand .”

  My stomach does an uneasy flip. “Ugh. Don’t say ‘Starbucks ’.”

  She grabs a towel off the rack and shakes it open. “C’mon, before you catch cold .”

  I dry off quick and follow her into the bedroom. It’s nicer than I expected: homey, with well-stuffed furniture. Ancient kerosene wall-sconces, retrofitted for electricity, cast a mellow light. A painting of a ruin overlooking a sea of wheat takes up most of one wall. But the best part is the bed, huge and fluffy, piled high with pillows. Great cloudlike pillows, swaddled in frilly shams, calling my name .

  “How rude would it be if I dove under those covers for, oh, the next year or so ?”

  Diana plops down on the bed. “Wouldn’t let you do anything else in your state.” She scoots back into the pillows, pulling me with her. “Lie down. Sleep. We can go for a moonlight stroll later .”

  “Moonlight... That sounds pretty .”

  “And you sound goofy.” She smooths my hair back from my face. “Close your eyes. You’ve earned a rest .”

  I have... I really have. That’s not self-pity talking: it’s been an endless few days. Not just the wedding—that was bad enough—but then there was work. Took forever catching everyone up so I could take the week off, not to mention checking in on nervous patients, and Nasmith-proofing my office. And then there was Tom, flitting around like Jiminy Cricket, bemoaning the whole situation .

  I curl myself into Diana’s side, vaguely aware I’m still naked. Can’t find it in me to care. Last thing I feel, before sleep swallows me up, is her fingers in my hair .

  10

  D iana

  Thought I’d spend the day catching up on some reading, but James’s exhaustion is contagious. Or maybe I’m more worn out than I thought. One minute, I’m watching the lines of pain fade off his brow; the next, I’m waking up to muffled hoofbeats. I wander out to the balcony in time to watch a man with a Clydesdale trudge by, making his way by lantern-light. Feels like I dozed off in the twenty-first century and woke up in the middle ages .

  A pair of strong, warm arms encircles my waist. “Was that an actual horse ?”

  I point down the street. “See for yourself—an actual horse’s ass .”

  He laughs. “I’ve been called worse .”

  “Funny guy. How’s your head ?”

  “Mm, all better.” His lips brush the top of my head. “Thanks for staying with me. Woke up a few times, but your heartbeat put me right back out. Like a puppy with an alarm clock .”

  The horse passes under a low-hanging arch and is lost to the night. I listen after it, but soon there’s nothing to hear. “Can’t believe how quiet it is. Like we’ve got the whole town to ourselves .”

  James pulls me closer, rocking me to and fro. “Maybe we do,” he says. “Maybe aliens came down while we were sleeping and beamed up everyone who ran out to look .”

  “Why not the horse guy ?”

  “Oh, he’s kind of a lush. He was passed out in the hayloft, dreaming his horse turned into Isabella Rossellini .”

  “I could see that.” I find myself leaning into his embrace, enjoying the warmth at my back. The stillness of the deserted street only makes the intimacy more welcome. “Have you been here before ?”

  I feel him shake his head. “Went to Rome last year. On business. Some guy ran up and unrolled the cuffs of my jeans while his friend made a video. Think I might be a YouTube star .”

  “Weird....” It’s getting harder and harder to concentrate on what James is saying. His solid presence floods my senses. I can feel his breath ruffling my hair, the slow pump of his heart. The weight of his arms, holding me in place, sends an unexpected thrill through my body. I felt the strength in those arms earlier, massaging the knots out of his shoulders and biceps .

  I could get away if I wanted to. He’s not holding me that tight. But I find myself toying with the idea that he could make me his prisoner, chasing the possibilities .

  Images flash by, one after another: his thick, corded forearm pressed to my throat as he pounds me into the mattress; his hands crushing mine, pinning me to the wall from behind; fingers digging into my thighs, my hips, my ass; arms lifting me like I’m weightless .

  I wonder if he’ll draw it out or take me fast and hard, if he’ll be shy or sure, rough or tender .

  Maybe he won’t at all—at least, not now .

  I slide my hand over his. The night air has turned his knuckles to ice, even as his palm warms my hip. He had cold hands on the plane, too—and when he slipped the ring on my finger. Cold hands, warm heart ?

  James has gone still. He’s not rocking me anymore. Can’t even feel him breathing. Could he be...waiting for me ?

  I graze my nails up the backs of his fingers. That earns me the slightest intake of breath, delicate as the touch itself. Emboldened, I brush my thumb over the dry skin of his knuckles. His hand gives the faintest of twitches. I follow the tendon of his thumb to his wrist. His pulse is racing under the skin. I press my fingers to it, drawn to the rush of blood and life .

  He shifts his hips, and I feel that same surging pulse farther south .

  I don’t quite dare press back against him. I’ve undressed him, bathed him, held him naked in my arms, but this is something else. He’s awake now, alert, all that strength coiled behind me .

  I curl my fingers around his wrist... But w
here to guide his hand? Up, over my shirt, where my nipples are already peaked with cold and arousal? Down ...?

  My courage melts away. I spin out of his embrace. “ I — “

  He straightens. Reaches for me. “Wait—You all right ?“

  “I need a bath!” I duck around him, evading his hand and his concern. It’s not a lie, exactly—I could use a dip. But what I really need is time. A moment to catch my breath. To figure out how I’m going to...what I’m going to.... He’s probably expecting someone more experienced. Someone with a clue .

  I turn on the water. On the other side of the door, I can hear James shuffling around. Digging through his suitcase, from the sounds of it. Probably looking for something warm to wear, now that I’ve ditched him for the tub .

  Normally, I’d love this—the rising steam carrying the mineral scent of the water, the heat soaking into my bones—but this is a temporary haven. Even if I dawdle till James falls asleep, he’s going to wake up eventually, and —

  There’s a hesitant knock at the door .

  Now what do I do ?

  “I, uh... Just a second!” I look around: nothing to hide under. No bubbles, no bath milk .

  “It’s okay—you don’t have to let me in.” The door creaks as he leans against it. “Just wanted to check on you .”

  Letting him in might not be the worst idea. The tub would be a nice buffer, keeping things from getting out of hand. Meanwhile, I could win back some goodwill, dispel any suspicion of prudery .

  I draw up my knees to preserve some semblance of modesty. “It’s fine. Come on in .”

  “You sure ?”

  No, but ....

  “Yeah, it’s fine .”

  He circles around the tub, to sit where I sat this morning. His hands rest on the lip of the tub, not quite touching my shoulders. “Did I do something before? To scare you off ?”

  I shake my head. That was pretty much all me .

  “’Cause if I did—If you wanna slow down — “

  “You could wash my hair.” My eyes widen—Where did that come from? Did I really just ask him to wash my hair ?

  He dips his hand in the water. “I could do that.” His fingers skim the surface, narrowly avoiding my bare skin. “But only if you want me to .”

  “I....” I nod .

  “Need you to actually say it.” There’s a note of amusement in his voice. He lifts a waterlogged lock and lets it spill over his fingers. Fat drops of water splash my shoulder, trickle down my neck .

  It might be nice ....

  “I want you to .”

  I close my eyes as he empties a double handful of water over my head, then another, and another. Warm streams and runnels tickle my scalp. Soon, a light citrus-mint scent fills the air. James tilts my head back as he starts to rub the shampoo into my hair, roots to tips. I find myself relaxing into it, stretching out in the tub. He’s doing a thorough job, slow and methodical. He even wets a cloth and swipes it across my forehead every so often, to keep the suds out of my eyes .

  “That good ?”

  “Mm-hm ....”

  “Lift your head .”

  I raise my head. He cradles it in both palms, and starts to knead the soap into a lather. That, now—that’s better than good. Wonderful, in fact. In some dim corner of my mind, I’m aware of making a sound, something between a hum and a sigh, but any embarrassment I might’ve felt is eclipsed by a profound, cozy contentment .

  James supports my head as I slide down to rinse out the suds. His fingers comb them away, slow and patient. I open my eyes and watch the bubbles spread out over the water, drifting in all directions .

  “Here, head up.” James pops open another bottle, and I feel cool, thick conditioner being teased through my hair. It’s refreshing after the heat of the bath. Easy to lose myself in the sensation .

  “That’s really nice .”

  “Yeah?”

  “Better than the hairdresser .”

  He laughs, low and rich. “Just don’t ask for a trim .”

  In this moment, I’d probably let him cut my hair if he wanted to. Well, maybe not cut it, but I’d chance a hot curling iron. I’m starting to trust him—or maybe he’s hypnotized me, lulled me into a malleable state with those sneaky fingers .

  I let him lower me into the water again. His hands wander, this time, exploring my neck and shoulders. When I don’t protest, he grows bold, following the lines of my collarbones, the tops of my breasts. I breathe deep, half-hoping he’ll keep going, but his hands glide back to my hair .

  He works his fingertips behind my ears, sweeping away the last of the conditioner. “Probably should’ve talked this out sooner ....”

  “Hm?”

  “It’s funny: we’re married, and I... It’d feel weird to just, I don’t know, treat you like any other—“ He clears his throat. “Sorry. That came out all kinds of wrong .”

  “I don’t want to mess it up either,” I say. Think that’s where he’s headed .

  “Yeah—that’s what I meant.” He smooths my hair down over my shoulders, parting it in the middle. I shiver as he runs a finger down my exposed neck. “I like this. These freckles, down your back. I could kiss every one of ‘em.” He walks his fingers down the knobs of my spine. “Mm, water’s getting cold. Let me grab a towel before you turn into a prune .”

  Like a gentleman, he turns his head when I get out, though I can’t imagine there’s much he didn’t see while he was doing my hair. Tried to keep my arms strategically placed, to start with, but I ended up needing my hands for balance, and after a while, it didn’t seem to matter. I saw him naked first, after all. Naked and hard, at one point. Think he might’ve been asleep when that happened. Certainly didn’t make any effort to cover it up .

  The towel’s almost sinfully fluffy. I take my time squeezing my hair dry and patting every last bead of moisture off my skin, but soon there’s nothing left to do but wrap a fresh towel around me and follow James into the bedroom .

  “So, we could — “

  “You could just — “

  James flops down on the bed. “Sorry—Go ahead .”

  “I’m not sure what I was going to say.” It’s true: I had some half-formed idea of asking him to show me what he likes, but that sounds kinda—I don’t know. Like I’m telling him to do it himself. In front of me. Fuck—and now I’m blushing .

  “Sit with me.” He pats the bed next to him .

  That... That I can do .

  James stretches out his arm, and I cuddle up under it. The weight across my shoulders is calming. “Am I making you nervous ?”

  I shake my head. “I’m doing that all by myself.” A little laugh bubbles up. “You’ve got this laid-back sort of, I don’t know—You know how some people... It’s like they’re so successful, so sure of their place in the world, nothing’s going to embarrass them? Like, they could walk down the street in white pants, with a Mountain Dew stain on their crotch, and it wouldn’t mean a thing ?”

  “Hate those people.” He fakes a gasp. “Oh, you mean—me ?”

  “A little bit ....”

  “Nah, I embarrass.” He’s petting me again, absently stroking my upper arm. “When we first met, and you thought I was gonna upchuck in your car—that was pretty bad .”

  “You flirted with me anyway .”

  “Yeah, but that was more...defense flirting.” He grins. “Plus, I could tell you were into me .”

  “See? Right there !”

  He leans in and steals a kiss, so casually I forget to be nervous. Feels like the most natural thing in the world to grab the front of his robe and pull him in for another. He lingers, this time teasing me with feather-light pecks. My fingers find their way into his hair, twisting, holding him in place. He gasps for real this time, and shifts half on top of me, supporting himself on one elbow as he dips down for a deeper kiss .

  His robe’s fallen open all the way to his hips. An untidy trail of black hair leads below the belt. My hand trembles with the temptati
on to touch. I picture myself following that dark line all the way down. His cock would be heavy and hot, a solid weight on my palm. He’d groan and buck into my hand. Bite his lip, or mine .

  I can’t, of course. It’d be too much. Especially as he’s yet to venture below my neckline. One hand’s on my cheek, the other splayed over my breastbone, his touch almost chaste. How would it look, if I went straight for the D ?

  I have to do something. I can’t be—how’d he put it?—like any other. Forgettable .

  The belt of his robe brushes the back of my hand. On impulse, I grab it and tug. It comes loose easier than I thought, tumbling curtains of silk around us. His cock, set free, slaps against my thigh .

  “Whoa....” James pulls back, exposing himself further. I can’t read the expression on his face—confusion? Arousal? He’s looking down at himself, instead of at me, lips slightly parted. Too late to change course now. I reach for the only part of him in easy range: his knee. Safe enough—and yet, the muscle of his thigh jumps at the touch. “Ah ....”

  He leans back slightly, but doesn’t move away. He licks his lips—a nervous gesture? An invitation ?

  I follow the line of his inseam with my palm, inch by inch. His breathing quickens, and I start to feel very much like we’re playing a game of chicken: how far will I dare? How far will he let me ?

  I get my answer where the muscle of his thigh reaches its thickest point. His hand darts forth, viper-quick, and I yelp as I’m jerked to my knees. In an instant, we’re face to face, his burning gaze locked on mine. My heart leaps into my throat as my towel falls away. He lowers my hand to my lap and holds it there, not letting go. My own nails dig into my flesh as he leans forward, weight bearing down on my hand .

  He’d be quite menacing if he weren’t smiling. He’s holding me in place, but his kisses are tender. His fingers trail up and down my side, riding that line between teasing and soothing. I realize he’s slowly lowering me to the pillows, fixing me in place with his body. His thigh slides between mine; his cock lies heavy along my hipbone, impossibly hot and thick .