“Hi,” I breathe.
His other hand slides down my back, over the curve of my hip, fingers splaying possessively. “God, I love you.”
“I love you too,” I whisper.
He kisses me again—slower this time, deeper—and I lose myself in it. In him. In the way his hands map every inch of me like he’s memorizing the topography of my body.
When he finally pulls back, we’re both panting.
“Let me take care of you,” he says, reaching for the body wash.
He works the soap between his palms, the scent of my coconut body wash filling the steam-thick air, and then his hands are on me.
He starts at my shoulders, fingers kneading the tension I didn’t realize I was still carrying. The game. The season. The year. All of it held in the knots of my muscles.
His hands slide down my arms, soaping every inch, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin of my inner wrists.
When his hands move to my collarbones, tracing them with reverent fingertips, I shiver.
“Cold?” he asks, mouth curving.
“Not even a little,” I breathe.
His hands continue their path—over the swell of my breasts, cupping them gently, thumbs brushing over my nipples in a way that makes my breath catch.
“Logan—”
“Shh,” he murmurs, lowering his head to press kisses along my neck. “Let me worship you. You deserve to be worshipped.”
His soapy hands slide down my ribs, counting each one like they matter, then over my stomach, tracing the lines of muscle I’ve built from years of training.
When his hands reach my hips, he grips them firmly, pulling me closer, and I can feel exactly how affected he is.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says, voice wrecked. “Every single part of you.”
His hands continue lower, down my thighs, behind my knees, even my ankles—like no part of me is unworthy of his attention.
When he rises back up, his hands slide up the backs of my thighs, over the curve of my ass, squeezing gently, and I gasp.
“Your turn,” I manage, voice shaky.
I take the body wash from him, working it between my palms, and then it’s my turn to explore.
I start at his chest, hands splaying wide over the hard planes of muscle. I can feel his heart hammering beneath my palm.
I take my time, soaping every inch of his torso—the ridges of his abs, the V-lines that point downward, the trail of hair below his navel.
When my hands slide lower, wrapping around his length, he groans, head falling back against the tile.
“Fuck, Sloane?—”
I stroke him slowly, learning the weight of him, the way he pulses in my hand, the way his breath stutters when I twist my wrist just right.
“You’re going to kill me,” he grits out.
“Good,” I whisper, and his eyes snap to mine—dark and wild and barely controlled.
His hand catches my wrist, stilling my movements. “Not yet,” he says, voice strained. “Not like this. I need to be inside you when I come.”
