Even now, even dead, that bastard clings like residue.
I scrub hard, until my skin stings. I scrub hard enough that one of my knuckles does indeed split open. But no matter how hot I turn the water, I still feel him—the echo of his voice, the way Willow screamed, the terror and pain I pray to Odin I never hear from her again in my fucking life.
I almost lost her.
The thought alone is enough to twist my stomach. I grip the tile harder.
If I’d been five minutes slower… ten… if my family hadn’t shown up… if she’d?—
No. I cut the spiraling thoughts off.
She’s alive. She’s safe. She’shere.
That’s what matters. That’s what’s real.
Still, I look back toward the door. Just these thirty feet between us, it’s unbearable. The separation feels like someone scraped out part of my chest and forgot to put it back.
It’s ridiculous. It’sinsane.We’ve been apart for maybe five minutes. I’ve survived ten years withoutanyone, but I can’t handle five minutes without her.
But like the fucking miracle witch she is, I’m halfway through rinsing the soap off when the bathroom door opens, and Willow walks in like she owns the air itself.
Without a word, she peels her shirt off. I watch every single movement through the glass. She drops it on the floor. Sheshimmies out of her pants next, and I don’t resist for even a second as I study the finest ass on the planet. And my dick twitches as she hooks her thumbs into her thong at her hips and drags it down, bending, and giving me the most beautiful view I’ve ever seen.
I bite my damn knuckle, the intact one, as she unhooks her bra and lets it fall to the floor.
She steps into the shower, water gliding over her skin, and my damn knees almost give out.
I’ve seen her powerful. I’ve seen her furious, unbreakable, lethal. But this? Her quiet. Her peace. Herliving.It’s the most breathtaking I’ve ever seen her.
She looks up at me through the steam. “You missed a spot.”
Her fingers wipe at a place on my cheek. I see it in her expression when she realizes it isn’t dirt or grime. It’s yet another bruise.
“My pretty boy got all banged up,” she says softly. I hear the hurt in her tone, the grief that causes her. She doesn’t like seeing me hurt any more than I liked seeing her hurt.
“You should see the other guy,” I say, trying to put her at ease. I grab her wrist, pulling it around to my mouth as I press a kiss to her palm.
She smiles faintly. “I did. He looked a lot worse than you did.”
I can’t stop myself. I reach out, pull her against me. I wrap my arms around her, and it feels like home when she folds her own arms around my waist and lays her cheek against my bare chest. I feel her heart beating against me like it’s proof that we both made it through.
She breathes me in. I breathe her back. Against my wet skin, her hand raises to lace into my hair. And she takes what she wants as she pulls my lips down to hers.
She tastes like sin and divinity. The woman is dark flame and holy lust. I take her mouth, tasting her like she’s the last thing I’ll ever experience. My hands come to her bare back. Willow is slender, trim. But what someone who doesn’t have the privilege of touching her might not know, is that she isstrong. Hauling the corpses of full-grown men on her own takes strength. And I feel it in every muscle in her back, in the defined curve of her shoulders.
My woman is capable in the deadliest of ways, and it turns me into a piece of rock-hard steel.
I slide my hands over the perfect globes of her ass before I hook them behind her thighs and hoist her up in one smooth motion. Willow grins wickedly against my lips as she kisses me harder. I back her up until I have her pressed against the tile wall. I picked this one on purpose; it’s the one directly across from the mirror, where she’ll have a view to watch every second of what we’re doing.
“Eyes on me or the mirror, okay, Dagger Kitten?” I breathe.
Willow holds my gaze as she just nods rapidly.
“Hold on to me,” I say as I line the head of my cock up with her entrance. “Take a breath.”
Fuck, I love it when she does what I say. It’s not about control or command. But that she lets herself go when I tell her what to do. Everything that fucker did to her in college left her with shame tied to something beautiful, and she locked herself up for ten years. So, when she trusts me? When she relaxes into the feminine, soft version of herself, and she lets me talk her through it?
It’s fucking spiritual.
