A sense of contented happiness settles in my chest at her agreement. We were leaving here today regardless, but knowing she understands and reciprocates my feelings for her is better than simply taking her home without her consent.
Unwilling to put her down, I walk across the tiny apartment and into the bathroom, holding her with one arm, while I lean over the tub and turn on the faucet.
Like the movement jolts her, she pulls her face away from my shoulder and looks at me. “What are you doing?” she asks.
“Running you a bath.”
“Why?”
“Because your hair is greasy and you smell,” I inform her succinctly.
Cringing, she groans, then wiggles in my arms, silently trying to remove herself from my hold. I’d rather keep her pinned tome, but I decide to do as she’s silently asking and slowly lower her to the floor. The moment her feet touch the ground, she leans to the side like she intends to step away from me, so I reach for her wrist, curling my fingers around it to keep her in place and as close to me as possible.
“I’m going to help you,” I tell her.
“What?” she questions, but I don’t answer. Instead, I squeeze her wrist gently, then let her go, gripping the hem of her shirt and pulling it up and over her head in one fast movement.
“Knight,” she squeaks, quickly clamping her arms across her chest to hide her bare breasts from me.
Ignoring her partial nakedness, I drop her shirt straight into the trash can, then sink into a crouch and pull her sweats down. Instead of waiting for her to pull her feet from the pants, I wrap my arm around her legs and lift her off the floor just high enough to drag the fabric over her feet, then push the sweats into the trash on top of the shirt.
Something inside of me settles once I’ve peeled the ugly clothes from her, and I take the time to look up at her from my position at her feet. Her arms are crossed over her breasts, like she’s more concerned with hiding her chest from my view than her vagina, which is barely hidden beneath a purple cotton thong covered in cartoon skulls.
Her eyes are wide with surprise, but not fear, as she looks down at me and sees me looking at her, devouring every detail of my mate’s body, like an animal assessing its prey.
“Get out,” she whisper-yells, but her protest is halfhearted at best. She doesn’t want me to leave, and we both know it.
Not acknowledging her request, I lift my hands to her hips, hook my fingers into the sides of her underwear, and yank them down.
“Knight,” she protests again, releasing one of her arms from her chest to cover her vagina.
“You’re beautiful,” I tell her, staring at the most perfect woman I’ve ever seen in my entire life.
The tension in her naked muscles goes slack, her shoulders slumping as she furrows her brows, her expression confused. “What?”
“I said you’re beautiful,” I repeat.
The words seem simple enough to me, but she seems perturbed. I wait a moment for her to say something, but when she doesn’t, I wrap my arms around her legs again and stand up, lifting her with me and repositioning her so she’s cradled in my arms.
With her naked body pressed against my chest, she makes a shocked noise, then starts to wiggle, clearly trying to decide whether keeping her breasts and vagina covered or holding onto me is a greater priority. Before she has a chance to decide, I lower her into the tub, placing her butt into the few inches of water that has accumulated since I turned on the faucet.
“What are you doing?” she asks, a hint of wonder in her voice.
Turning away from her for the first time since she started to cry, I search the bathroom for soap and shampoo. Finding them on a shelf in the corner, I grab them, then lower myself to my knees on the tile floor beside the tub.
“I told you I was going to help you,” I remind her.
“I’m naked, Knight. I’m in the tub. I know I smell, but I’m not in that bad of a state that I can’t wash myself. I can take it from here,” she says, holding her hand out for the soap.
Ignoring her, I rub suds into my palms and start to wash her, memorizing each inch of her body as I cover her skin with soap.
“Knight,” she says, and I think she intends it to be a protest, but instead of sounding angry or upset, she just seems…lost and empty.
“You’ve lost weight,” I tell her as I run my fingers across her shoulders and arms.
“Have I?”
“Yes, several pounds, I’d estimate.”
