Rowdy || 18+ || RH

Chapter 29 🌶️

Emersyn

We arrive back at the house, the quiet inside a stark contrast to the buzz of the wedding. The evening's events play back in my mind like a movie reel, each moment etched in vivid color and emotion. My heels click against the hardwood floor as I walk in, the sound magnified in the silence.

"Thanks for coming with me, Marx. It made the day a lot easier," I say, looking up at him.

He smiles warmly. "Don't mention it."

I nod, returning his smile, but my thoughts are racing. Every glance, every touch from tonight, lingers in my mind.

With one final glance between us, I head to my room. I close the door behind me and lean against it for a moment, exhaling deeply. I walk over to my dresser and begin taking off my jewelry, setting each piece down with a soft clink. Then I reach for the zipper on the back of my dress, but it won't budge. I try again, pulling and tugging, but it's stuck.

A wave of frustration washes over me. The last thing I want to do is ask Marx for help. The thought of his hands on my zipper, his fingers brushing against my skin, sends a mix of anticipation and trepidation coursing through me.

I walk out of my room, my bare feet padding softly against the wood. As I reach the living room, I find Marx still there, standing by the window, staring out into the night. He turns at the sound of my footsteps, and our eyes lock.

"Do you, um, mind helping me?" I stammer, my voice tinged with embarrassment and something else—something that feels dangerously like desire. "My zipper is stuck."

He looks at me for a moment that feels like an eternity, then slowly walks over. "Of course," he says, his voice low.

I turn around, my back to him, and suddenly, I'm acutely aware of every inch of space between us. I can feel the warmth radiating off him, can smell the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the night air. My heart is pounding so loudly I'm sure he can hear it.

I feel his fingers lightly touch the fabric of my dress, right above the stubborn zipper. A shiver runs down my spine, electric and intense. He starts to pull the zipper down, and his fingertips brush against the bare skin of my back. Heat courses through my body, centered where his skin meets mine. It's as if a circuit has been completed, filling me with a current of raw emotion.

The zipper gives way, finally, and he slides it all the way down. But his hands linger for just a second longer than necessary, resting gently on my lower back. It's a touch so subtle yet so charged, it leaves me breathless.

"Thank you," I whisper, not trusting myself to say more.

"You're welcome," he replies, his voice equally soft.

I walk back to my room, my mind a whirl of thoughts and feelings that I don't yet know how to process.

As I step into my room and close the door behind me, I press my back against the wood, my thoughts a hurricane. The silence in the room is almost deafening, punctuated only by the sound of my own heartbeat drumming in my ears. How is it possible that a simple gesture, a mere unzip of a dress, could open up a chasm of emotions I'm not ready to dive into?

The air in the room feels thick, as if charged with the electricity that just passed between Marx and me. I walk over to my bed and sit down, the fabric of my dress pooling around me, its zipper now fully undone.

My hands are trembling as I pull the dress off my shoulders, letting it slide down to my waist and then onto the floor. I step out of it, my feet sinking into the soft carpet. I feel almost exposed, even though I'm alone in my room. The space around me feels different—like it's holding onto the memory of Marx's touch, the heat of it still imprinted on my skin.