We’re both hit by the full force of the spray, the monsoon head drenching us from every angle. The shower is massive, almost its own wet room, but Ezekial makes it look small.
I watch the bright grey streak in his hair darken with the water, fading until it nearly disappears into the black strands.
Now we’re both soaked. Both naked. But I need to stay focused.
I send a silent prayer to the Goddesses.
“Down,” I say, pairing the command with a downward sweep of my fingers.
This time, there’s no hesitation.
One knee. Then the other. His eyes stay locked on mine as he sinks obediently, until he’s staring up at me.
Oh.
My.
Goddesses.
I grit my teeth.No. This is not the time to admire the way Ezekial looks.
Not with water streaming over his face, blurring the sharp lines of it. Not with dark strands of hair plastered to his skin. Not with droplets sliding down the ridges of his muscles, gathering in the hollows before falling lower.
Especially not while he stares up at me like I’m the answer to every prayer he’s never dared to whisper. Like I’m the entity who hears those prayers, and he’s desperate to worship.
I force my gaze away, distracting myself by searching through the bottles on the shelf. Quickly finding what I need, I emulsify a generous amount of shampoo between my palmsbefore slowly, cautiously reaching forwards to spread it through his damp, blood-matted hair.
The moment my fingers slip into his hair, nails grazing his scalp, his hands find my waist, warm and steady, pulling me gently closer. He doesn’t stop until his forehead rests against my sternum, just beneath my breasts.
Each hot breath that fans against my stomach is painfully erotic.
I swallow, and it takes me a good few seconds before I can make my hands move again.
With him kneeling beneath me, I block most of the water. When I shift to the side to let it rinse through his hair, he’s reluctant to let me go. Still, I manage enough for the stream to wash the shampoo away.
The whole process is... challenging.
Ezekial is more than happy for me to touch him, clean him, but when it comes to rinsing, which means removing my touch, that’s when the angry grunts come.
Still, I’m fairly pleased with what I manage, all things considered. It’s my first time showering someone and, for a first attempt—especially with this particular client—stripping down and stepping in feels like exceptional service.
“I think you’re pretty clean now,” I say, running my fingers through his hair. “Ready to get out?”
I can’t see his face, only the top of his head, the inky lines curling over his shoulders.
He doesn’t respond, doesn’t move.
I swallow and try again. “Ezekial.” Apparently, his name is the password.
With his chin still pressed to my stomach, he tilts his head back so he’s staring up at me. Another image to sear into my brain.
This massive, terrifyingly beautiful man kneeling, looking up like I’m the only thing in existence—even with my breasts obscuring the view.
I point outside the shower. “Out.”
His brows furrow softly. Then he rises, and I smile in quiet triumph, starting to leave—
Two large hands grip my waist, stopping me. My eyes widen as I stare up at the dripping wet Ezekial who’s reaching for the shampoo I just used. He pours far too much into his hands, and—oh.
