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I grabbed the towel and bunched it in my lap as I rolled, a crumpled tent over an obvious pole.
“Don’t mind him,” I said. “He’s just here for moral support.”
Claire burst out laughing. A real laugh, the honking one Helen always teases her about. She clapped a hand over her mouth and had to turn away.
“Oh my God. Moral support.”
“He’s very supportive.”
“I can see that.” She wiped her eyes, still giggling, and the tension in the room cracked open like an egg. “Right. Okay. Lie still, you idiot.”
She did my arms and chest, laughing every so often under her breath. It was easier now. Lighter. We talked about Helen’s fortieth, about her ex, about the time I fell off the pontoon in Corfu. She rubbed oil into my stomach in slow circles, and every so often her eyes drifted down to the tented towel and she bit her lip.
The laughing stopped somewhere along the way. Her hands got slower. Her circles got lower, fingers grazing the top edge of the towel, the coarse hair just above my cock.
“He’s still supporting,” she murmured.
“He’s very committed.”
She smiled, but it was different now. Softer. She looked at the clock. Twenty minutes left.
Her hand rested flat on my stomach, right above the towel, heavy and warm. I could feel her pulse in her palm. Or maybe it was mine.
Neither of us said anything for a long moment.