When the water temperature is right, I pick her up again. She wraps her legs around my waist instinctively, and I carry her into the shower.
The water hits us like absolution. Hot and steady, washing away sweat and tears and the evidence of what we did on the piano.
We stay like that for a long moment. Her clinging to me, her head on my shoulder, the water cascading over both of us. I can feel her breathing slow. Feel the tension gradually drain from her muscles.
I slide her down my body until her feet touch the tile. I'm hard again. Can't help it, not with her wet and naked and pressed against me.
She notices. Her hand moves toward my cock, and it takes everything I have to step back.
"Better if you don't touch me right now," I say through gritted teeth.
She looks up at me, water streaming over her face. "I've never touched a man before."
I hold my breath. Count to ten. Try to regain control over the primal instinct roaring inside me that wants to claim her, mark her, make sure no other man ever touches what's mine.
"I'll let you do whatever you want with me," I finally manage. "Later. Right now, I need to take care of you."
I reach for the body wash. Squeeze some onto a soft cloth. Begin to wash her with slow, methodical strokes.
Her shoulders first. Then her arms, her hands, each finger individually. Down her back, over the curve of her ass, along her legs. I kneel to wash her calves, her ankles, her feet.
When I stand again, I wash her front with the same careful attention. Her collarbone. The swell of her breasts. The flat plane of her stomach. Between her thighs, gentle and thorough, making sure she's clean.
She stands still through all of it. Lets me care for her without protest. When I'm finished, I turn off the water and wrap her in the fluffiest towel I own.
Another towel for her hair, squeezing out the excess water with careful hands.
Then I lead her to my bed.
The sheets are cool against our skin as we lie down together. I pull her close, her head on my chest, her leg draped over my hip. Hold her like she's precious. Like she's breakable. Like I'll die before I let anything hurt her again.
We're quiet for several minutes. Just breathing together in the darkness.
Then she starts to speak.
"It happened when I was twelve."
Her voice is barely a whisper. I tighten my arm around her but don't interrupt.
"My father was having a party at our house. Business associates. It was common, he hosted them all the time. But this one was different." She pauses. "It was a masked ball. Venetian masks. Beautiful ones."
I feel her swallow against my chest.
"My twelfth birthday had been the week before. I thought I was so grown up." A bitter laugh escapes her. "Father told me to stay in my room. It was an important party. But I'd seen the women arriving from my window. Their gowns, their masks. I wanted to see them up close."
She shifts against me, and I realize she's trembling.
"It's alright," I say quietly. "You don't have to tell me tonight. We can—"
"No." Her voice is stronger now. Determined. "I need to tell you. I need to say it out loud. So it doesn't have power over me anymore."
I press my lips to her hair. Wait.
"I snuck out of my room," she continues. "I was hiding near the ballroom, watching the party, when I saw my father coming in my direction. I panicked. Ran to the library to hide."
Her fingers curl against my chest, nails biting slightly into skin.
"There was a man in the library. By the fireplace. He was wearing a black mask that covered his whole face. When I came in, he... he smiled at me. Called me by name."
