He choked on a breath. That teasing edge in her voice made his body ache, a sharp, consuming pull that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with how long he'd missed her.
He turned toward the faucet like it was a lifeline. Let the hot water run until it steamed, then twisted in the cold until the temperature hovered just above body heat, perfect, careful, right.
He turned back, and she was so close he had to brace a hand against the tile to steady himself.
She held out a small, round package. A shimmering orb wrapped in iridescent cellophane.
He blinked.
“Bath bomb,” she explained, a soft smile curving her lips.
He raised a brow. “Bath bomb.” His voice was low, wry. “You know what kind of metaphors you’re setting off with that?”
“Can you open it for me?”
That request, simple, quiet, direct, landed harder than the word underthings. He felt it hit somewhere behind his ribs, near the part of him that had forgotten what softness was.
She was asking for his help.
Not because she couldn’t. But because she trusted him enough to let him.
His hands shook slightly as he peeled back the wrap. He almost dropped it, fumbled it like it was a live charge instead of a bath accessory.
Her gaze dropped to his hands. Traveled to his forearms. Tracked the flex of muscle like it meant something. Like he meant something. Then he saw the trail of sand.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, low. “I’m a mess. I was training those knuckleheads when Zorro called. I came straight from the beach. I’m sandy. Damp. Should’ve cleaned up?—”
She moved in closer. Her breath ghosted over his skin.
“I don’t care,” she whispered. “I wasn’t looking at the sand. I was looking at you. Those strong hands that tell Flint exactly where to go and what to do, warrior hands that can kill but then are so damn gentle. Those forearms that are sexy as hell. The dark cast to your skin that calls me home every time I look at you.”
She reached for his free hand, lifted it, kissed the center of his palm with a softness that knocked the air from his lungs. Her eyes stayed downcast, the pads of her fingers trailing across his skin. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Dakota. I’m so very sorry.”
He swallowed hard. “It did hurt, Bailee. You said not with me. I thought you meant you didn’t want to be with me, but?—”
Her head shot up. “No. Oh, Bear. That’s not what I meant.” Tears shimmered in her eyes.
Tears…for him?
His chest tightened, that gutted feeling he’d been carrying around eased. “You said it was a mistake.”
She shook her head. “I was scared of all that was happening between us. It was overwhelming to finally admit how much I wanted you. But then I felt your scar, and how can there be anything but honesty between us after what happened to you? Your blood was all over me. I thought I was losing you. I couldn’t bear it.”
Then she looked up at him. “You can drop that into the water. It’ll melt.” A beat. Her eyes never left his. “Then you can help me get undressed.”
“Bailee,” he said, his voice fierce. He released the bomb, and it plopped into the water with a soft splash. He grabbed her by the back of the neck, stared into those dark, depthless eyes, and then took her mouth, his hand fisting in her hair, dragging her head back, bowing her body so that she pressed against him. She wrapped her good arm around him, a soft, sweet groan slipping out of her.
Her hand slid to the hem of his shirt.
“Please,” she whispered against his lips. “Take it off.”
He covered her hand with his, just for a moment, steady, grounding, his thumb brushing over her knuckles.
Then he let go, grabbed the fabric, and pulled the shirt over his head in one clean motion.
She drew her hand across his chest, slowly, reverently. Fingers sweeping down the solid planes of muscle, across his ribcage, until they found the scar near his hip, a faded line over vulnerable flesh, half-hidden beneath hardened skin.
She pressed her palm over it.
