I strip faster—shirt, bra, jeans, panties—until I’m bare and shivering under the spray. The water turns pink around his feet, then clear. I lather a fresh washcloth until suds drip over my wrists, and then I step in close.
“Lean down, big man.” He bends, folding that massive frame until his shoulders are level with my lips.
I start at the base of his neck, cloth gliding over ink and scar tissue, scrubbing slow circles that make the skull on his shoulder blade gleam. Soap slides down the valley of his spine, tracing flames and names of the dead. I follow every line with the cloth, then with my bare fingers, memorizing the heat of him.
“Higher,” I whisper, and he dips lower, water plastering his dark hair to his skull.
I wash the nape of his neck, behind his ears, the sharp cut of his jaw. My breasts brush his chest with every stroke; my nipples tighten instantly against the slick muscle.
When I reach his pecs, I ditch the cloth. Palms flat, I spread suds over slabs of muscle, thumbs circling flat nipples until they stiffen and he exhales through his teeth.
His cock lifts another inch, brushing my belly.
I slide lower, tracing every ridge of his abs, nails scraping lightly through the thin trail of hair that arrows south.
His breath hitches when I wrap one soapy hand around the root of him—still not fully hard, but heavy, the head flushed darker now, a bead of water clinging to the slit.
I stroke once, watching his thighs tense. “Easy,” I tease, voice lost in the hiss of the shower. “I’m just cleaning.”
He growls, low and dangerous, and the sound vibrates straight to my clit.
Arms next. I lift each massive bicep, scrub dried blood from the creases. When I finish, he straightens, towering again, water cascading off his shoulders like a waterfall.
“Your face,” I say.
He looks down at me. Water streams down his face, plastering his dark hair to his forehead.
“I can’t reach.”
Without a word, he bends down to my level. Still too tall. So he scoops me up, hands under my thighs, lifting me until my legs wrap around his waist.
Now we’re eye to eye.
I take the cloth and wash his face. Gentle around his eyes, firmer on his jaw.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
“No.”
“Stupid question.”
“Yeah.” I rinse the cloth and rewash his face. Making sure I get everything. “But I’ll survive. I always do.”
“You shouldn’t have to.”
I meet his eyes.
“None of this is fair,” he continues. “What your dad did. What Marcus did. What we’re putting you through now, keeping you locked up. You deserve better.”
“I’m exactly where I chose to be.”
“Did you choose it? Or did circumstances force your hand?”
I’m quiet for a moment, still washing his face even though it’s clean now.
“Both,” I say finally. “I chose you three. The circumstances just sped up the timeline.”
His arms tighten around me. “I won’t let him take you.”
