Instead of pain or pressure, warmth brushes my ankle.
I look down.
Cipher kneels at the foot of the bed, a bowl of steaming water in one hand and a cloth in the other. The sight is so unexpected it steals the air from my lungs. He wrings the cloth out slowly, themuscles in his forearms flexing, scars along his hands catching the light.
“Don’t,” I warn, though I’m not sure what I’m warning him against.
He glances up at me, expression unreadable. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine. I just need you to give me a key for these.”
“You’re cold,” he counters, and then his hand is on my calf, firm and warm, grounding in a way that makes my toes curl.
The cloth follows, sliding over my skin in long, unhurried strokes. Warm water, gentle pressure. He cleans me like it matters what I think about his bathing skills. No, I correct myself. He's cleaning me likeImatter.
“These flowers are beautiful.” He is speaking about the cherry blossoms falling from the clutch of a massive phoenix bird I had inked on my back after he dumped me for his Savage brothers. The blooms flutter in the wind starting from my back and wind around to the front to fall over the curve of my hip and down my upper thigh. They fall in a flurry of oranges, yellows, pinks and blues. They stand for our shared love, not that I would ever tell him that. I loved the cherry tree he gifted me on my first birthday with him as a couple.
I hate how my body betrays me.
My breath goes shallow. My hips shift without permission. The position leaves me helpless to hide anything, and I know he sees the way my thighs tense, the way my stomach tightens as he moves closer.
“Cipher,” I say, my voice catching on a soft gasp. “This isn’t?—”
“I know,” he murmurs, cutting me off. His voice is rougher now. “I just need to do this for you. More for me, probably. Let me take care of you, Harlow. You don’t have to be a warrior every second of your life.”
He works his way up, careful, methodical. Ankles. Knees. Thighs. His knuckles brush sensitive skin and sparks jump straight to my core. I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood when the cloth glides between my thighs, when he cleans me of himself with a tenderness that feels more intimate than the sex did.
My pulse pounds in my ears.
He doesn’t rush his task. And Cipher doesn’t linger over the hard beads of my nipples when he passes the warm cloth over them.
But he does growl. It is a sexy, low rumble that works its way through his chest and reaches out to touch my raging need to come again for him.
I suck in harshly when he gently spreads my thighs and passes the cloth between my swollen lips. I can’t help it. I shudder when he takes his time to clean me, rinse the cloth and then do the same torturous thing to me all over again. The whole time I watch the muscle in his jaw tick like this is costing him something.
When he’s done, he sets the bowl aside and reaches for a towel, patting me dry with the same care. My skin feels hypersensitive, every nerve ending awake and screaming for his hands on me instead of the towel.
I let out a harsh breath that makes him chuckle lowly.
He backs away and places the towel on a nearby chair. Instead of returning to give me what he knows I want, he stands back and admires my flushed body from beneath hooded eyes.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs to himself and then he turns, taking the cloth and bowl back to the bathroom. When he comes back in, he goes for the towel. I was so focused on what he was doing to me, I forgot he came in here dripping wet.
Even now droplets cling to the contours of his muscular arms and defined abs.
Standing at the foot of the bed he drags that damn towel down his chest, over the scars along his ribs, over the line of his jaw where old damage still shadows his skin. A knife fight that nearly ended him, he told me once.
I watch despite myself.
The room smells like soap and sex and winter air seeping through the walls. The fire crackles somewhere behind me, a low, steady sound that makes the cabin feel smaller, more intimate.
When the rat bastard finishes, he sits on the edge of the bed, facing me.
“Why are you panting, baby?”
“How much wood did you toss on the fire out there?” Seems like a logical reason for me to be flushed and hot. I’ll go with that rather than the other obvious reason.
His gaze flicks up to my face and pauses.
