Not yet. Not ever.
22
EMMA
“Shower,” he murmurs against my throat. “We both need one.”
I laugh weakly. “I don’t think I can walk.”
“Who said anything about walking?”
Before I can respond, his arms are sliding beneath me, one under my knees and the other around my back, and he’s lifting me off the bed like I weigh nothing at all.
“Bodhi.” I loop my arms around his neck, too spent to protest properly. “This is ridiculous.”
“Humor me.”
He carries me through to the bathroom, shouldering the door open and setting me on the cold marble counter. I hiss at the temperature against my bare skin, and he smirks, reaching past me to turn on the shower.
The bathroom fills with steam as the water heats. I watch him move, still marvelling at the sheer size. Broad shoulders taper to a narrow waist, thick arms roped with muscle, and thighs like tree trunks.
And he’s mine. At least, that’s what he keeps telling me.
“Come on.” He offers me his hand, and I take it, letting him pull me off the counter and guide me into the shower.
The space is generous. A walk-in with slate tiles and a rainfall head, easily big enough for two normal people to move comfortably.
But Bodhi is not a normal person.
He has to duck to fit under the shower head, and his shoulders span most of the width, leaving me pressed between his chest and the cool tile behind me. Water cascades over us both, hot and steady, washing away the evidence of what we just did.
“Turn around,” he says.
I do, facing the wall, and a moment later, I feel his hands on my shoulders, slick with soap. He works it into my skin with slow, deliberate strokes, his thumbs digging into the knots of tension along my spine.
I groan and let my head fall forward. “That feels incredible.”
He doesn’t respond, just keeps working, his hands moving lower. Down my back, over my hips, across the curve of my ass. There’s nothing rushed about it. He’s thorough, methodical, like he’s memorizing the shape of me with his fingertips.
When he reaches my thighs, I have to brace my hands against the tile to stay upright. He kneels behind me, his big hands gentle as they soap along my calves, my ankles, even between my toes. It’s absurdly tender, this huge, dangerous man on his knees, washing my feet like I’m something precious.
“Turn,” he says again, and I do.
He’s still kneeling, looking up at me through the steam, water running in rivulets down his rugged face.
He washes the front of my legs, my stomach, my breasts, his touch careful despite the intimacy of it. When he stands, he pulls me under the spray to rinse, his hands smoothing the soap away.
“My turn,” I say, reaching for the bottle.
“I’ve already been here too long.” He goes still but doesn’t stop me as I squeeze soap into my palm and press my hands to his chest.
He’s a landscape of muscle and scar tissue. I trace the ridges of his stomach, the hard planes of his pectorals, the dip at the base of his throat where his pulse beats steady and strong. Old scars crisscross his skin, silver with age, and I follow each one with my fingers, wondering about the stories behind them.
He lets me explore, his eyes half-closed, water streaming over his shoulders.
I work my way around to his back, standing on my toes to reach, and he hunches slightly to give me better access.
My fingers slide over his shoulder blade, and I pause.
