Shrieking, I yanked the shower curtain back and jumped back into the tub at the exact moment he barked “I’m sorry!” and started to run out of the room. My feet slipped out from under me, I hit the wall, and I slid down into the tub, yelping as my landing sent a jolt of pain up from my tailbone that squeezed all the breath out of my lungs. A half-full bottle of shampoo slid off the shower caddy and thumped me on the head, and my vision swirled and I cried out again.
The curtain slid back with a loud clatter of the metal rings that held it up. There he was, looming over me. My arms snapped closed over my chest and I twisted.
“Are you okay?”
“Daddy,” I croaked.
“Are you hurt?”
I nodded.
He lifted my shoulders in his arm and slipped the towel around me, wrapping me up in it. It was one of our old beach towels, harsh and scratchy but big enough to sweep around me twice and tighten around my body as he scooped me right up out of the bathtub into his arms and carried me, newlywed style out of the bathroom. He walked into my room, turning to carry me through the door, and lowered me onto the bed.
He disappeared, then reappeared a moment later and wrapped a towel around my head to cover up my soaking hair, but not before he ran his hand through it and felt over my scalp.
“No bump. That bottle hit you in the head?”
I nodded.
“I’m sorry, sweetie. I thought you were your mother. I sort of forgot you were home.”
“My butt hurts,” I said.
He blinked. “I’m sorry.”
“Why don’t you, um,” he said.
He turned to leave. My arm shot out and I grabbed his wrist. Since my arm had been trapped in the towel, the towel pulled away from my chest. I grabbed it in my other hand and tucked it up against me.
“What?” he said.
I could feel my heart hammering against my ribs. My grip tightened. My breath was coming out in ragged gasps and my vision blurred a little. If I were an older, sophisticated woman I might have something different, something seductive, but I was a scared, confused eighteen going on nineteen year old girl and I pulled his hand to my chest and pressed my breast into his palm.
He stood there for a second. His hands were surprisingly rough. History professors aren’t supposed to have rough hands. They’re supposed to have city hands. But he worked out and he didn’t wear gloves, so his palm was coarse and he had little pads of thick callous at the base of all his fingers and they were rough and scratchy on my skin. I felt my nipple harden and draw into a point against his palm.
His fingers closed and he squeezed, lightly. It made me gasp and jump a little. His mouth was open just a bit. He needed a shave. He was looking me right in the face. He kept his hand there, and I felt my breast pressing against his grasp as I breathed. He just sort of froze.
My arms sank to my sides. The towel slid down my body and settled around my waist as I sat up. His hand still pressed against me, and he was still squeezing, lightly. I took his wrist in both hands and tugged, moving to the other side. My skin had reddened where he touched me. Where I made him touch me.
“What are you doing?” he said.
“Please,” I whispered.
He swallowed. He pulled his hand out of mine and I thought he was going to leave. I sucked back on a ragged, whickering sob and was about to beg when he sat down on the bed, took the towel, and slid it lower, exposing my belly. He put both hands on my sides and moved them up and down, his touch so light it bordered on a tickle. It made me gasp and flinch and I felt my breasts bounce just a little, and smiled inwardly as he stared at them.
His hands moved up my sides, under my arms. His thumbs grazed the outer curve of my breasts as he moved his hands over my shoulders, squeezed them lightly, and moved on. His hands slid around my throat and he gripped my neck and ran his thumbs along the curve of my jaw, then moved them up to cup my cheeks. He shifted onto the bed.
Toothpaste. He smelled like toothpaste and old sex. He was pushing me down into the bed but gently, holding my head in his hands. I slithered under him until I was lying down. My hands moved on their own, found his sides. Touching him shocked me. His skin was warm and soft on his sides. I could feel his ribs under it and bunching muscles flexing where I touched.
He was close to me. His breath was in my nose, tickling my lips. I crossed the gap. My head rose up off the pillow and I kissed him. A thrill shot from my lips down through my body and when it landed between my legs it caught fire and clenched up. I shifted under him, shimmying and squirming around until the towel was under me, not on me, and I was naked and cold.
Gently, he lowered his weight on top of me. His lips moved over my chin and down my throat, and he planted small, soft kisses along the arch of my collarbone. My legs lifted up and my knees touched his flanks. He lifted up, resting his hands on the bed, his stomach flexing as he breathed. He stared into my eyes.