The Innocence That Practices novel · Chapter 2 of 12
Chapter 2: The Shower
Genesis slid off my lap as if the couch were on fire.
I pulled up my pants with one hand and turned off the lamp with the other.
The key was still turning.
She grabbed her book, smoothed her shorts, and dropped to her knees on the rug in front of the coffee table, her face inches from the anatomy chart.
She looked like a saint at prayer.
The door opened.
"Edgar?"
Yajaira's voice filled the room, cool and tired.
"I'm here."
She came in with her rolling suitcase, gray coat, auburn hair pulled back, and red lips still perfect at a quarter past ten at night.
Thirty-six years old.
Tall, serious, in heels that sounded like hammer blows.
"The flight was canceled," she said. "Storm in Maracaibo."
"That's too bad."
"My head hurts. I'm going to bed."
"Want me to make you something?"
"No."
She took off her shoes by the door.
She kissed me on the cheek, a dry, passing brush.
She smelled of expensive perfume and airports.
And something else.
Something I couldn't name.
"What is Genesis doing?"
"Studying."
"At this hour?"
"She has an exam."
"Hi, Auntie," Genesis said, without looking up, her voice perfectly calm.
Yajaira glanced at her.
"Good night. Don't stay up late."
"I won't, Auntie."
"And turn everything off."
"Yes."
She went down the hall.
We heard the master bedroom door.
The bathroom faucet.
Then nothing.
Genesis looked up.
Her cheeks were flushed, her lips parted, her eyes those of someone who'd just thrown herself into a pool.
"Whew," she whispered.
"Genesis."
"Yeah?"
"This can't happen again."
"I know."
"I'm serious."
"I know, Uncle."
"Your aunt is sleeping ten yards away."
"I know."
"Then good night."
"Good night."
She stood, holding the book against her chest, and went to her room without looking at me.
I stayed on the couch in the dark, my cock throbbing and eight years' worth of guilt in my stomach.
I spent the night in the study, on the sofa, eyes wide open.
At four thirty in the morning, I heard bare feet in the hall.
They stopped outside the study.
A shadow beneath the door.
A soft knock.
I got up.
I opened the door a crack.
Genesis, wearing a long sleep shirt, her hair down, bare feet on the marble.
"What are you doing?" I whispered.
"I couldn't sleep."
"Go back to your room."
"I want to take a shower."
"There's a bathroom in your room."
"The hot water in mine doesn't work."
"That's a lie."
"Yeah."
"Genesis."
"Come with me."
I looked at her.
Behind her, the dark hallway.
At the end, the closed door to the master bedroom, where my wife slept with earplugs and a silk sleep mask, as she had every night for the past three years.
I knew how deeply she slept.
It was profound.
It was a wall.
"No," I said.
"Edgar."
I couldn't breathe.
"Tell me you don't want to. Mean it, and I'll go."
I didn't say it.
I stepped out of the study.
I followed her down the hall in silence, my heart in my throat.
We went into the guest bathroom.
I locked the door.
Genesis turned on the shower, and the water began to roar, covering us like a blanket.
She turned around.
She pulled her shirt over her head.
She stood naked before me in the bathroom's yellow light.
God.
She was more beautiful than I'd let myself imagine in four months of trying not to imagine her.
Round, heavy breasts with dark nipples.
A narrow waist.
Wide, womanly hips.
A triangle of soft brown hair between firm thighs.
The mole beneath her lip.
She covered her breasts with one arm, suddenly shy.
"Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're going to eat me."
"I'm close."
She smiled.
She stepped under the water.
She pulled the curtain halfway shut.
"Come on."
I took off my pajama pants and T-shirt.
I stepped in.
The water was warm.
Her slick skin glistened beneath the spray.
I pulled her toward me.
I kissed her.
It was the first time we'd ever kissed.
She tasted of toothpaste and mint.
Her lips parted, clumsy and yielding.
I taught her how to move her tongue.
I taught her to breathe through her nose.
She learned in two seconds.
"More," she whispered against my mouth.
I lifted her against the tiled wall.
She wrapped her legs around my waist.
My cock was pressed against her belly, between our wet bodies.
I lowered one hand.
Slid it between her thighs.
She was soaked, and it wasn't water.
"Genesis."
"Yeah?"
"I'm going to touch you."
"Do it."
"I'm going to put a finger inside you."
"Yes."
"Tell me if it hurts."
"It won't hurt."
I slid my index finger inside her slowly.
She was tight, hot, trembling.
She moaned, her lips against my neck.
I moved my finger inside her, curling it upward, searching.
With my thumb, I stroked her clit.
"Edgar," she gasped. "Edgar."
"Shh."
"I can't."
"You can."
"I'm going to..."
"Do it."
I added a second finger.
She arched against the tiles.
Her head fell back.
Water ran down her neck, over her tits, down her belly.
I sucked one nipple into my open mouth.
She screamed.
I covered her mouth with my free hand.
She bit my palm, eyes closed, and came trembling, her legs squeezing my waist like a vise.
A long spasm, the kind you don't forget.
When she settled, she rested her forehead on my shoulder.
She was breathing as if she'd been running.
"God," she murmured. "That was better than the first time."
"Better?"
"Much better."
"There's still a lot left."
"How much?"
"Everything."
She looked at me.
Her honey-colored eyes, clouded over, gleamed with a new determination.
"Then I want to see," she said.
"See what?"
She lowered her gaze between us.
To my erect, wet cock, brushing against her thigh.
"Everything."
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