“No.” Emerson groans and leans back. “It’s perfect.”
“Where’s your shampoo?” I ask, and she gestures to the shelf stacked with bottles. There’s nearly a dozen. “Christ. You use all of this stuff?”
“Not all the time. Just occasionally.”
“It’s like a salon in here.”
“You really don’t have to do this, Miller.”
“Shut up, Hartwell.” I pick one up and grab the shower head. She moans when I wet her hair, and I massage her scalp with my nails. “What will it take for you to relax?”
“That,” she breathes out. “That feels like heaven.”
It feels like heaven for me too.
I love when she’s riled up. I love when there’s a blaze to her words and fire in her tone. But I also like her like this.
Quiet.
Soft.
So fucking pretty with droplets on her eyelashes and her mouth curling around a pleased sigh.
Everything about the moment is intimate. I’ve never touched a woman without the promise of sex as the end result, but with her, I like it.
I like the way she tilts her head so I can wash and condition the ends of her hair. I like the way she sinks further into the tub the longer I kneel next to her.
I wonder what it would be like to do this every day.
“Thank you,” I say, and her eyes flutter open. “Thank you for letting me help you, Emmy. Thank you for letting me be here. You can tell me to go whenever you want and I will, but I want you to know this is exactly where I want to be. I’ve got you.”
She laces our fingers together and squeezes my hand. “Thank you for coming. I’m not… this is?—”
“I know.” I smile and put the shower head back in place. “It’s a one-time thing. Our little secret. Tomorrow you can be the ass kicker you normally are, and no one has to know.”
“You think I’m an ass kicker?”
“The best of the best. I’m going to put you in bed then bring you some food. You need some protein and carbs. What do you want? Soup? Toast? Rice? A whole plate of mashed potatoes?”
“The living room is fine. You don’t need to go into my room.”
I pull the plug on the tub. “Why are you being so secretive about your room?”
Emerson swallows. “I might have wet the bed, and there’s definitely vomit on my pillows.”
I stare at her, and that fear from earlier is back. “You could’ve died.”
“I wouldn’t have died. I can take care of myself. I made it to the bathroom, didn’t I?”
“For fuck’s sake, woman.” I lift her out of the tub and wrap her in a towel. “No one is saying you can’t. I want to help, Emmy.Let me help. Share the load with me. You don’t have to carry it alone.”
I keep her in my arms and grab the candlestick from the sink, marching toward the living room.
I take mental notes of everything I need to get done: a new fucking door. Clean sheets and bland food. A gallon of water and a thermometer to make sure she doesn’t have a fever. A message to Coach and the boys to let them know she’s okay.
“Why are you holding a candle?” Emerson asks into my shoulder.
“Remember when I broke down the door? I thought someone was being held hostage, and this was my weapon of choice,” I say sheepishly.
