Afterlife by Joey W. Hill

if
    Jon had reached
    inside her and pul ed that plug.
    He switched their positions, so he
    was backing her over
    the bathroom tile, cold on her soles.
    Then she was on the
    lavender bath rug, which she scented
    with that herb so that
    the movement of her feet over the
    pile brought the aroma to
    her.
    Stepping away from her, he
    nevertheless held onto her
    hands until their fingers were
    templed against one another.
    Sliding free, he turned her vanity
    chair around and
    straddled it to face her, his forearms
    crossed on the top
    and thighs braced out wide.
    “Take off your clothes, Rachel.”
    “Wh-what?”
    “You heard me.” That same tone of
    gentle steel and
    steady unwavering gaze. He was
    pushing that door open
    wide inside her and she lacked the
    ability to shut it, to
    refuse him. “Remove your clothes
    and get in the shower.
    Leave the door open. I want you to
    wash yourself
    thoroughly. Do you shave your
    pussy?”
    When a doctor asked personal things,
    there was a
    clinical detachment to it that saved it
    from being
    inappropriately intimate. The way
    Jon was asking her this, it
    was
    in-the-deep-end-of-the-pool
    intimate,
    but
    his
    confidence made it appropriate, as if
    he had every right to
    demand
    answers.
    Her
    quaking
    stomach
    wasn’t
    disagreeing, even as her knees were
    beginning to wobble
    at what this was doing to her. As
    he’d proven already, this
    was normal for him. For her it was a
    dream, one that she’d
    had for so many years it had become
    a painful y obsessive
    addiction. Her breath was coming
    short again, and she
    reached out for the shower door to
    steady herself.
    In an instant, he was back beside her,
    pressing her
    against the wal , holding her to him.
    “I’m sorry,” he
    murmured. “You’re so new to it,
    aren’t you, beautiful?”
    “I’m hardly beautiful,” she managed.
    “Especial y at the
    moment.”
    He cupped her face in both hands,
    and he was so close.
    “Yes, you are. Now, back to my
    question. Do you shave
    your pussy?”
    “Yes.”
    “I thought so. Some of the leotards
    you’ve worn are pretty
    formfitting.”
    “You must have been straining your
    eyes.”
    “What good is being around lots of
    women in snug
    clothing if you don’t look?” A glint of
    humor in those blue
    eyes gave her a shard of reassurance,
    then it broke into
    butterflies as he brushed her temple
    with his lips. “And
    since the teacher is the best looking
    one…”
    She had a good amount of twenty-
    somethings in her
    classes, with figures much better than
    hers, but she
    decided she would believe him, just
    for a second. She
    wasn’t up to arguing.
    “No more procrastinating. I want you
    to bathe and shave
    yourself.” Reaching in the shower, he
    turned on the hot
    water. She was leaning against his
    hip as he kept his other
    arm around her waist. His throat was
    within a breath of her
    mouth, so tempting. She closed her
    eyes to quel the urge,
    then opened them as he stepped out of
    reach again, only
    this time he leaned against the sink
    counter. “Clothes,
    Rachel,” he said firmly.
    She swal owed. She couldn’t
    possibly, not while he was
    watching. “You know, formfitting or
    not, those leotards cover
    a lot of things.”
    “I know. That’s why I want to see it
    al .” His gaze roamed
    over her then came back up. “Lower
    your eyes, Rachel. To
    your feet. You’l keep your attention
    there unless I give you
    permission to look at me. Now take
    off your clothes.”
    Her stomach clutched at the order,
    delivered in that even,
    formidable tone. “Jon…”
    “Obey me, beautiful. I promise it wil
    be al right.”
    Unbuttoning the flannel pajama top,
    she slid out of that so
    her hair brushed her bare shoulders.
    He could see her
    breasts, the pink tips drawn tight
    from the chil , though she
    wondered if it was also the heat of
    his regard affecting
    them. Pul ing the drawstring loose on
    the bottoms, she let
    them drop so she was standing in her
    plain cotton