I notice it in the little things — the way he makes sure I have a blanket over my legs when we’re sitting on the sofa, the way he always ensures I’m on the inside of the sidewalk when we walk, his hand resting lightly at my lower back when we move through crowds. Not that we go out often, but for healing’s sake the doctor thought it a good idea, so now we walk around the block every morning without fail.
By the third night, my bruises are still tender, but the deep ache has dulled enough that I’m moving better. I decide it’s time to wash my hair properly — something I’ve been avoidingbecause lifting my arms over my head sends pain sparking through my ribs.
Lucien’s loft is quiet, the hum of the city muffled through the massive glass windows. I’ve been pretending to read on the sofa, but exhaustion drags at me, so I gather a towel and slip into the spare bathroom.
Steam curls against the mirror as I step into the shower, hot water cascading over my skin. It feels good. But the moment I reach up to lather the shampoo, my ribs protest sharply. I hiss, forcing myself to push through the pain. “Come on,” I mutter under my breath, trying to massage the shampoo into my hair with only my fingertips, awkward and clumsy. My arms tremble from the effort. And then, of course, I drop the damn bottle. “Shit!” The word echoes louder than I intend, bouncing off the tiles.
There’s a soft knock on the bathroom door, immediately followed by Lucien’s low, steady voice. “Briar. Are you okay?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, dragging a hand down my wet face. Great. Just great. “Yeah,” I call back, trying to sound casual. “I’m fine. Just…struggling.”
There’s a pause on the other side of the door, then his voice drops lower. “Struggling how?”
I hesitate, chewing my lip. I should tell him to leave, but instead, the words slip out before I can stop them. “I can’t…wash my hair properly. My ribs…” I trail off, frustrated and embarrassed all at once.
Silence. Then, carefully, “Do you…want help?”
I freeze, shampoo running down my forehead, sliding into the corner of my mouth. My pulse spikes instantly. He can’t mean that the way I just heard it. I swallow hard and force my voice steady, even though my heart is pumping a million miles too fast. “Yes.”
The quiet stretches so long I start to think he’s going to back out and then the door slowly opens. Lucien steps inside, the steam curling around him like a cloak, his tall frame filling the doorway. His eyes lock on me through the glass panel of the shower, widening slightly when he sees me.
He doesn’t look away.
Neither do I.
He clears his throat, his jaw tight, like he’s fighting something. Could it be the same thing I’m fighting?
Desire?
“Where’s the bottle?” His voice is rougher and more strained than usual.
I reach down and pick up the shampoo and hold it out with a trembling hand. I ignore how his gaze drags over me, heating my skin everywhere his eyes linger. He steps closer, takes the bottle from me, and for a moment, the brush of his fingers against mine feels hotter than the steam.
I turn back under the spray, pretending I don’t notice the tension crackling between us. My heart beats too fast. My breathing’s uneven. And I want him — God, I want him — even though I know I shouldn’t.
He’s my boss. Enemy to my ex-husband. All of that could fuck everything up.
Lucien moves slowly, carefully, almost like he’s afraid to spook me. He squeezes shampoo into his palm, then steps closer until I can feel the heat of him at my back.
“Tilt your head back,” he murmurs.
I obey without thinking. The first touch of his fingers against my scalp makes me shiver. He massages the shampoo into my hair gently but firmly, and it’s ridiculous how good it feels. I bite my lip, fighting a sound I don’t want to make, but then his thumbs sweep along the base of my skull and a soft moan escapes before I can stop it.
His hands still.
My cheeks flame, but I don’t move away. I can’t.
Lucien’s breath hits the side of my neck, slow and controlled. He resumes washing my hair, his fingertips sliding through the strands, slick and sure. Every stroke sends another shiver chasing down my spine.
“Briar,” he says softly, almost like he’s warning himself, not me.
I don’t answer. I can’t. The air between us thickens until it’s almost too hard to breathe. His chest brushes my back lightly, once, then again — not an accident. He’s close enough now that I feel the heat radiating off him, his breath mingling with the steam around us.
Is he wet? Are his clothes soaked? The idea of turning around and seeing his shirt pressed against his body, transparent from the shower, makes me ache. By the time he rinses the last of the shampoo away, my legs feel shaky beneath me.
And then, before I can process it, Lucien presses forward — slowly, deliberately — until the solid heat of his clothed body is flush against mine. The hard lines of his suit and belt dig into my damp skin, but I don’t care.
I freeze, heart pounding, half-wild with want.
