Up until now.
His blue eyes are as warm as I’ve ever seen them as he tips my chin up to search my face. After a moment, he says, “If I let you take these bandages off, you’ll tell me exactly what you meant, baby bird? What’s ticking over in that always-interesting mind of yours?”
“I will.”
“Alright, then.”
I begin to remove the bandages, starting with the soft cotton wraps first. I work methodically and wind them up, and then I go to work on the Band-Aids underneath, inching them off little by little. Eventually, I get down to skin.
I worried I’d cry when I saw the damage. I don’t, though. The jagged pink scars that run up and down Luca’s body don’t upset me. They don’t appall me. They only remind me exactly how much this man loves me.
“They’ll fade,” he says, after I’ve stared at them in silence for several moments. “They said they’d fade.” The nervous lilt to his tone hits me right in the chest.
“You think I care about that?” I put my hand on his cheek and look him straight in the eye. “I hope theydon’tfade. Every single one of them is a symbol to me—to the whole damn world—of your strength. Your resilience.” Keeping his eyes, I kneel down in front of him and press my lips gently to the river of scarred flesh running up the side of his belly. His hand threads through my hair, petting me. I run my tongue all the way up to the tip of the scar and then look up at him again. “You wear these proudly. Show those motherfuckers they can try to take you down—but they never will.”
We had a lot of creative sponge baths during our time in Boston, but I know Luca’s been getting tired of having me take care of him so intimately. He would never say, because he’s trying, with every fiber of his being, to begrateful, but I don’t want him grateful or compliant or docile. I want him to be who he is.
And I want him to remember, for once and for all, whoIam.
Chapter Thirty-Five
FINCH
Itake Luca’s hand and lead him into the bathroom. No more seated showers. He’s much stronger these days and both Darla and the doctor in Boston have told him to make sure he gets adequate time out of bed. He’s rested enough, this devil man of mine. So I turn the showerhead to a warm, soft setting, like a summer rain, and kiss him while I wait for the water to heat up.
Inside the shower, I watch him adjusting to new the sensations from his knitting pink flesh as the water travels over his scars. I take up the washcloth and soap, and give him the slowest, most luxurious wash-down that I’ve ever given him.
There’s a part of me that will miss him letting me do this, letting me care for him so completely. But once an injured lion has recovered, you don’t keep him in a cage. You release him back into the wild to take his rightful place.
Once I’ve carefully cleaned his top half, I get on my knees in front of him and pay the same attention to his bottom half. I take particular care with his junk, soaping him up slowly and firmly until he’s heavy in my palm, my other hand sliding thick with soap foam between his ass cheeks.
When I look up at him from this angle, his balance resting on one leg, his long, hard body rising up and taking up my whole view, I’m reminded of Michelangelo’s David—if a little hairier. I move on to his thighs, smoothing my hands over the tapering muscles, over his knees, his perfect calves.
I keep my eyes cast down and I bend myself double, my legs tucked up underneath me, as I wash his ankles and his feet. I lift each of his feet into my palm, curling my fingers around it while I wash it, rinse it, and then set it back down on the tiles carefully.
And then I lean right down and press my lips against his feet, kissing them all over, clutching at his ankles as the water rains down around me.
Finally, I look up at him again, his eyes so far away that they’re unreadable. “Do you have any idea,” I ask quietly, “how much I worship and adore you?”
He’s very good at keeping his reactions in check, so I know it’s involuntary when his mouth curls, just slightly, at both sides. “Are you coming to me as a supplicant, baby bird?”
“I am.”
I’ve caught his attention now, and not just physical, though I don’t miss the way his cock twitches as he looks me over, bowed and begging before him. “Well, then? Let’s hear it.”
I wrap my fingers around his ankle and consider my words carefully, staring at his feet again. “Soon you’ll be fully recovered.”
“Yes?” he prompts.
“I want you to know...that I’ve enjoyed taking care of you. I’ve beenthankfulyou let me take care of you. It’s not something I get to do very often.” I slide my hand up behind his thigh and tilt my head back to take him in. “Thank you.”
He reaches out to caress my cheek with the backs of his fingers. “You’re welcome, angel.”
“But,” I say, and watch his small smile die. “I want you to let me continue taking care of you.”
“What is it that you’re asking?” I can’t read him now, neither the tone of his voice nor the look in his eye.
“I am asking you to let mebeyour partner, in every sense of the word. I swore everything to you at our wedding—for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health. Haven’t I proved myself to you by now? I want to be with you inallthings.” I take a deep breath. “I want to be with you in the darkness as well as the light.”
