Blind Carnival

Bubble and Clean

"Liv," he murmurs into her neck, crawling closer to her, making her lean back.

There's surely not enough room for them in this tub.

"We have a problem..."

"Oh?" She's now inclining back, on one elbow, her other hand splayed on his shoulder.

"I really, really–" He pauses to place a few little kisses on her neck and catch her earlobe between his lips. Has he read it in one of her books? She surely isn't complaining. "Really want you... but some parts of me aren't ready." His voice is shaking with laughter. "It's just that you've been very–"

"Thorough?"

"Successful."

She snorts.

"I'm torn, Liv..." Purr. That's a purr. "Between going to bed, and returning the favour." His tongue swirls on the muscle of her neck. "And since some of my parts are playing traitor right now–"

She theatrically looks down his body. 'Traitor' might be a bit too harsh of a term, but yes, that's not even a semi-erection. One third of it, maybe. Still a quite impressive recovery time.

"What are our other options?" she asks.

He did want a shower shag.

"We can have a bath together, and give me a bit of time... to regain some–"

"Focus?"

He guffaws and then kisses the tip of her nose.

"Stop writing my lines, naughty girl."

"I was just helping out!" She daftly bats her lashes. "I'll take the bath option."

***

He starts the water, plugs the bath, and then hangs the upper half of his body out, searching for something in the cabinet under the sink. She ogles his long arms and the muscles moving over his shoulders.

"I have no bubbles... but I might have some shower gel. Would that work?"

Something flops loudly inside the cabinet.

"It'll do."

The shower gel is lemon and verbena. The tub fills quickly, and very quickly it becomes clear that he overdid it with bubbles. The foam is thick, and it's everywhere. She can't stop laughing -e specially when she discovers that he can be persuaded to sit still while she gives him a foam wig.

Once she mentions that he looks like Hugh Laurie's Prince of Wales, the situation becomes life threatening, when he decides to make that funny face and mutters, "Where are my socks?" and then "Socks are like sex. Tons of it about, and I don't seem to get any."

She laughs so hard that she starts slipping down and has to grab onto him for dear life.

Eventually, she finds out that sitting like they do in romantic photos and books - her narrow, delicate back pressed to his masculine chest in the warm water, their bodies fitting like pieces of a puzzle - isn't that comfortable. She either has to lean back onto him, but then her bum slides down the tub bottom, or if she sits straight, there's a space between them. Also, she prefers to see him.

They settle on occupying the opposite ends of the tub, but it's rather small. They both seem to be content with the arrangement: she offered him her left foot, which he's currently giving a very decent acupressure session, while her fingers are rubbing his knee and thigh, which she suddenly found rather fascinating.

His head is dropped back, eyes closed. Her thoughts are lazy and half formed. Real life is funny, she thinks. It's full of things that surely can't go into her books. Something about 'societal norms, objectification of women, and beauty myth' stirs in her mind, but she's feeling too good to let her thoughts stray from the sheer appreciation of the here and now. Maybe small everyday experiences of being in a relationship just don't fit her books. Say, she can't write there that a man has beautiful legs, which is what she's thinking right now - but she hopes her readers find the appreciation for these small things when they are in a relationship themselves. She slides the tips of her fingers down, on his calf, and enjoy the coarse black hair, and the prominent muscle under them.