“Of course it is,” I say cheerfully, dipping the washcloth in the warm water and wringing it out carefully. “You’re all sweaty and sticky. I can’t have my man uncomfortable.”
I start with his face, gently dabbing at his forehead and temples. The cloth is just the right temperature, not too hot, not too cool. His eyes flutter closed despite himself, and I can see him trying to fight the relaxation that wants to take over. It’s adorable how he struggles against simple pleasure.
The warm cloth traces along his jawline, following the strong line of his bone structure. When I reach the corner of his mouth, he parts his lips slightly in an unconscious gesture that makes my heart skip. Such a natural response to gentle care.
“There,” I murmur softly, my voice barely above a whisper. “Doesn’t that feel better?”
He doesn’t answer, but his breathing has deepened, becoming slower and more regular. The fight is going out of him, replaced by something that looks almost like contentment.
I move to his neck next, washing away the salt and musk with careful, reverent strokes. His pulse jumps under my touch, a rapid flutter against his throat that tells me exactly how affected he is by my ministrations. When I reach the sensitive spot just below his ear, I can’t resist pressing a gentle kiss to the clean skin. He shudders, a full-body tremor that sends heat racing through my veins.
“Ginni,” he warns, but there’s no real heat in it. Just breathless awareness.
“I’m just being thorough,” I assure him innocently, rinsing the washcloth before continuing my careful exploration of his body.
I work my way across his broad shoulders, marveling at the play of muscle under his skin. Every ridge and valley deserves attention, deserves to be treated with the reverence it commands. Down his arms I go, taking special care with the places where the restraints have left faint marks on his wrists. I massage those spots gently, apologetically, my fingers working to soothe any lingering soreness.
When I reach his hands, I take extra time with each finger, washing and massaging them with dedicated focus. He has beautiful hands, I’ve always thought so. Strong and manly, with broad fingers that are equally capable of violence and tenderness. The thought of what else these hands might do, given the chance, makes me dizzy.
“You have such beautiful hands,” I murmur, lowering my lips to his palm for just a moment. “Perfect for touching.”
Carlo’s breath hitches, and his fingers curl slightly against my cheek before he catches himself and forces them to relax.
Moving to his chest, I let the warm cloth trail through the dark hair there, watching as droplets of water catch the artificial light. His nipples tighten when I pass over them with deliberate slowness, and I file that reaction away for future reference.Everything about his responses is precious data, information I can use to bring him more pleasure later.
“You’re enjoying this,” I observe with deep satisfaction, watching the way his chest rises and falls with increasingly unsteady breaths.
“I’m tolerating it,” he corrects, but his voice is rougher now, gravelly with suppressed desire.
I laugh softly, the sound intimate in the quiet room. “My stubborn man. You don’t have to pretend with me.”
I take my time with his abdomen, tracing each ridge of muscle with the cloth. He’s so perfectly defined, so beautifully made. The result of years of discipline and care that I find absolutely captivating. I could spend hours just cataloguing every detail of his body, memorizing the map of scars that tell the story of his dangerous life, and the way his skin responds to my careful touch.
There’s a particularly fascinating scar just below his ribs, thin and precise like a blade wound. I trace it gently with the cloth, then with my finger, imagining the story behind it. How young was he when it happened? Did it hurt? Was he afraid, or was he already the fearless man I know him to be?
“Stop staring,” he mutters, but there’s no real annoyance in his voice.
“I can’t help it,” I admit honestly. “You’re so beautiful. Every part of you tells a story, and I want to know them all. All the missing puzzle pieces of the parts you’ve never told me.”
When I finish washing him and begin patting him dry with the softest towel I own, Carlo looks almost peaceful. His eyes are heavy-lidded, pupils slightly dilated, and for a moment he seems to have forgotten where we are and how we got here. This is how he should always look, I decide. Relaxed and cared for and free from the weight of constant vigilance.
“Better?” I ask softly, gathering up my supplies with reluctant efficiency.
He nods, the gesture small but unmistakably genuine, and my heart soars like it’s trying to escape my chest entirely.
I tidy everything away, humming softly to myself as I put the washcloths in the hamper and return the soap to its proper place in the bathroom. Everything has its place in our new life together, and I intend to maintain proper order. Organization is important in any household, but especially in ours where everything must be perfect.
When I return to the bedroom, Carlo is watching me with those dark, unreadable eyes. There’s something different in his expression now, something that wasn’t there yesterday. Not acceptance, not yet, but perhaps the beginning of understanding.
“Right then,” I announce brightly, clapping my hands together with renewed energy. “Time for my Twitch livestream!”
Carlo blinks slowly, like he’s surfacing from deep water. The peaceful expression fades, replaced by confusion.
“I don’t know what any of those words mean.”
I pat his leg affectionately, enjoying the way his muscle tenses under my touch.
“That’s okay. Old people don’t. It means I’m going to go talk online to my followers.”
