What's Said in Silence

Vessel-XXXXXXXIII

History has a unique way of presenting opportunities for repetition. 

The dust of our argument had settled in the following days. By the end of the following week she'd had some success in therapy. She'd managed to tell the therapist what she'd told me about her mother but that was all she could muster. Upon returning, she told me that the woods felt more open- less clinical than Dr. Wesley's office - and maybe that was why she'd had more ease in talking to me. 

For a moment I had thought that would be the end of her sessions, but she insisted that she keep going. Even if she was only able to repeat what she told me in the woods it would still help having a guide through the emotional backlash- a conclusion she'd come to entirely of her own merit. Such a remarkable, stead-fast woman.  

And now, I sit here with that same woman just behind a door and a choice I've been weighing heavily in my mind. Steam curled in a beckoning finger under the door as if in tune with my idea and wanted in on the game. 

The door held my attention with its now unbearably white paint, a blank canvas if I so choose it. My fingers clenched to satisfy the impulsive itch in my palms as I weighed out my options. On one hand, it could be too much too fast, and seeing as how she's been pushing herself lately I didn't want to add to her list of pressures. 

On the other hand, there was a chance that she would see my intent and take it for what it truly was: an invitation. She could see the offer and tell me no and I would have no qualms with it, but if she accepted...

I reached for the paint sitting on the bedside table and squeezed a healthy amount into my palm, curling my fingers and working the paint to cover my fingers. The black overtook my skin like a shimmering twilight lake. I stood from the bed and walked towards the bathroom door in slow, deliberate strides. 

I gave myself pause, letting the internal debate wash through me once more before reaching the decision that was inevitable. I pressed my palm against the door. History did indeed have a unique way of repeating itself.

There wasn't enough time for regret to sink in before the door creaked open. My breath caught at the sight in front of me. So many times had I seen her like this, seen her completely bared. Yet the dripping wet hair splayed out on her shoulders, the towel clutched tightly to her breasts, the slight part in her lips, all of it, nearly sent me to my knees.

Her eyes shifted from me to the door, where there was a defined hand print. It was nearly identical to the one I had left on the door to the guest bathroom all those months ago, only this one was darker and glossy compared to the faded matte of the last one.

The corner of her mouth twitched before she turned her attention back to me, an amused smile  took over her features and there was a trace of laughter in her words, "I hope you're not expecting me to clean that."

The quirk in her brow was all the invitation I needed, "I'm sure we could strike another bargain. Although as I recall, you never fulfilled your end on the last one and I cleaned it anyway." 

"And just what would you bargain for this time?" Her head tilted to the side, the light catching on the devious gleam in her eyes. 

I pondered my options for a moment, considering what I might ask for. I couldn't stop the slow spreading warmth as a delicious thought coursed through me, "I'll clean the door if I can make the same mess on you."

Confusion flashed across her features just before realization set in, "You want to paint me?" I nodded in response. "I just showered." She gestured inside the still steaming bathroom.

"All the more reason it appeals to me." The desire to paint every crevice of that beautiful skin took hold and it had no intentions of letting go. My mouth watered as more and more wicked thoughts washed over me. 

For weeks, I've wanted to touch her, to have her entirely, but my need to ensure she was ready greatly outweighed my sinful cravings. Now, as evidenced by the paint on the door, I'd been driven to madness by this woman, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

She looked at my paint covered hand and reached for it, threading her fingers with mine and effectively covering her palm with the remaining paint. She lifted her hand and pressed her palm on the door, leaving behind a smaller hand print next to my own. 

I marveled for only a second at the sheer symmetry between me and this woman before the towel dropped and she had my full attention. I would never become too accustomed to the way my heart palpated at the sight of her. Her voice came out sensuously husky as she said, "Where would you like to start?"