I guess even I hadn’t realized just how freaked out I’d been by it all. Everything happened so fast, and then it was over, andI was so thankful we were all okay that I didn’t let myself feel the terror. Pushed it down. Kept going.
But now?—
Suddenly I’m crying. Really crying. Tears I can’t control streaming down my face.
“I should never have left your side,” he says roughly, his own voice thick with emotion.
I’m all but shuddering in his arms now, my whole body shaking.
“Yes, you should have,” I cry into his chest, my words muffled against his skin. “Or else we would have been blasted out of the air by missiles! But yeah.” I turn my teary face into his warmth as he rubs my back in soothing circles. “It was a lot.”
“Let me make it up to you.” The words are a whisper against my ear as he nestles his head down against mine, his cheek against my hair. “Let me take it all away.”
I nod fervently against his chest, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.
He walks us toward the shower, only pulling away long enough to reach in and turn on the spray. Multiple streams of water begin cascading, and steam immediately starts filling the space.
He unhooks my bra with practiced ease and slowly—eyes never losing contact with mine—peels it off me. The straps slide down my arms. Cool air hits my breasts, making my nipples tighten.
Then his hands are at my hips, fingers hooking into my panties. When he bends over to tug them down my thighs, I swear I can feel the heat of his breath as he inhales deeply—appreciatively—before my panties are at my ankles and I’m stepping out of them.
Completely naked now. Exposed.
He leads me inside the marble and glass enclosure, and it’s the perfect temperature—hot but not scalding, steamy and enveloping.
He positions me right underneath the main spray, and my muscles immediately begin to relax. The hot water cascades over my head, my shoulders, running in rivulets down my body.
He’s standing behind me, and he must feel whatever tension is still locked in my shoulders, because his hands come up to massage them. Strong fingers digging into the knots.
“I want you to give yourself over to me completely now,” he murmurs against my ear. “Can you do that for me?”
I nod, still hiccupping from the tears. Yes. Please.
I still feel so overwhelmed by everything. But I feel so secure in his arms, in his care. It sounds like heaven to give it over to him. To surrender control for a little while.
I’ve been fighting for so long to keep my head above water. Long before I met him. In my last relationship with Michael, I always felt like I had to walk on eggshells because I never felt secure. Never knew what mood he’d be in, what criticism would come next.
Then at home with Mom, I felt like I had to keep a hard shield up all the time so her little barbs wouldn’t skewer me. So her comments about my weight, my choices, my failures wouldn’t land quite so deep.
But from the beginning with Remus, it’s never been like that. In spite of all the unusual circumstances of meeting him—the whole flying-down-from-the-sky-claiming-to-be-a-god thing—he’s always made me feel safe. Wanted. Cherished.
So it’s the easiest thing in the world for me to say, “Yes. Please take care of me for a little while.”
He gives a corresponding growl of appreciation from low in his throat—almost animalistic, possessive. The sound vibrates through his chest into my back.
One arm wraps around my waist, holding me against him. The other reaches in front of me for a bottle on the shelf—shampoo, I realize.
The most heavenly scent fills the steamy air when he opens it—something floral but not too sweet. Jasmine, maybe? With hints of vanilla?
Moments later, I sigh in pure pleasure as his lathered fingers sink into my hair. Strong. Sure. Massaging.
He washes my hair slowly, taking his time. His fingers massage my scalp as he goes, working in circles, applying just the right amount of pressure. Every stroke deliberate and caring.
I sink back against him completely, trusting him to hold my weight. My eyes flutter closed.
It almost feels like some sort of sacred ritual as he tips me forward gently to wash the soap out of my hair. I keep my eyes closed, breathing through my mouth as the hot, soapy water falls around my face, over my head. His fingers continue to massage, working through my hair to ensure every bit of shampoo is rinsed clean.
He washes my hair slowly, massaging my scalp as he goes. I sink back against him, trusting him to hold my weight. It almost feels like some sort of sacred religious act as he tips me forward to wash the soap out of my hair. I keep my eyes closed, breathing out of my mouth as the hot, soapy water falls around my face, his fingers continuing to massage my hair clean.
