“You can do whatever you want with me,” I say. “Always.”
His breath leaves him in a single exhale. He lathers the soap until the foam is dense, then smooths the suds over my shoulders, down my arms, systematic and thorough. Even his worship is algorithmic—he maps every square inch of my skin as if the act itself is a sacrament.
I am so much softer than I ever allowed myself to be, so much more undone by his care than I would admit aloud. If I hadn’t just come apart so many times, I’d melt here, under his hands, into the white marble tiles and never reassemble.
He kneels, washing my legs with gentle but possessive hands. When his fingers brush the marks he left on my thighs—bite marks, bruises, the evidence of his desperation—he makes a low sound in the back of his throat.
“I got carried away.”
“I liked it.”
“I should have been more careful?—”
“Logan.” I catch his wrist, urging him to stand so I can lift his hand to my mouth, pressing a kiss to his palm. “I wanted it. All of it. Every mark you left is proof that you wanted me badly enough to lose control.” I meet his eyes. “Do you know how long I spent feeling invisible? Feeling like no one would ever look at me and just... want?” I swallow hard. “I spent my whole life believing I had toearnpeople’s attention. That if I were smart enough, useful enough, if I could just solve enough problems, then maybe I’d be worth noticing.” I shake my head. “And then you looked at me like I was the only thing in the universe worth seeing. Not because of what I could do for you. Just because I existed. You still do.” I meet his eyes. “That’s not something to apologize for.”
His expression cracks open. Vulnerable in a way that makes my chest ache.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits quietly. “The... after part. I know how to research techniques and optimize performance metrics. But the soft stuff—the taking care ofsomeone, the making them feel cherished—I don’t have a framework for that.”
“You’re doing it right now.”
“I’m washing you. That’s just hygiene.”
“You’re washing me like I’m precious.” I step closer, pressing my body against his. “You’re touching me like you can’t believe I’m real. You’re looking at me like—” I stop, swallowing hard. “Like I matter.”
“You do matter. You matter more than anything.”
“Then you’re doing fine.” I kiss him softly. “Better than fine.”
“I just don’t want to mess this up.”
“You won’t,” I whisper, pulling his hands back to my skin.
They resume their path down my body—slower now, reverent. When they reach between my thighs, I gasp, still sensitive from before. He pauses.
“Tell me to stop if it’s too much.”
“It’s not. Just...” I shift against his hand. “Gentle. Go gentle.”
He does. Soft, careful touches. And despite everything—despite being wrung out and exhausted, despite having lost count of how many times I came tonight—I feel heat building again. A slow ember rather than a wildfire.
I’m not the only one affected. I can feel him hardening against my hip.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “I can’t seem to—you’re just so?—”
“Don’t apologize.” I wrap my hand around him, and he hisses. “I want you again, too.”
“You can’t possibly?—”
“I can. I do.” I stroke him slowly, watching his face contort with pleasure.
He groans quietly as my grip tightens and strokes a little harder. His forehead drops to my shoulder. “You’re going to kill me,” he says, but the sound has no protest in it. Just awe. Maybe a little fear of his own capacity for wanting.
“Not kill. Just—keep you.” I’m greedy, greedy in a way I never let myself be before him, and now it’s all I want. To see him undone, to know I’m the only thing on earth that can do it.
He kisses a line from my collarbone to my jaw, his hands finding my hips and holding me there with a tenderness that’s almost too much. I lean my head back, let the hot water drench my face, and continue to work him in my soapy hand as he stiffens in my grip, the column of his cock slick and perfect and made just for this. It’s almost overwhelming how much I like seeing him lose his mind for me, the way his careful mask cracks open and there’s just raw, shivery need.
“Fuck,” he says, teeth bared in almost a snarl, and I realize I could push him right to the edge, here and now, and he would let me, and isn’t that the most insane thing? Every other boyfriend I ever had wanted to be in control, to orchestrate the experience from start to finish. But Logan—he gives his body over like it’s a love letter, trusting me not to tear it up.
