It’s just that—to be safe, of course, because I’m still a little weak—it might be good to just let him keep doing what he’s doing.
I mean, he’s oddly good at it, like he took a scalp massage class or went toHow to Wash a Girl’s Hair Until She Orgasmsschool. Either way, he’s clearlyverypassionate about hair care, and who am I to deny him that happiness? I’m a boss at compartmentalizing. I can hate him and still get a scalp massage.
The more he tends to me, the more I find myself leaning into his strong hands. When I realize what I’m doing, I immediately straighten up and put my game face back on.
Oh no you don’t, Rookie. I see your game, and it’s not going to work on me.
I step away from his magically relaxing fingers and rinse my hair, putting some needed distance between us. I feel Rook’s resigned huff, but I don’t look at him as I wash all the suds away until my hair squeaks. Man, it feels so good to not be covered in grime and bad memories. I grab for the conditioner, but Rook beats me to it. I narrow my eyes at him and put my palm out expectantly.
He searches my eyes for something. “Sinclair, I know you’re—”
“Don’t, Rook,” I warn, cutting him off. “I want to get clean, and then I need to sleep and heal. I’m not going to play your games, and I won’t be asking you to play any more of mine either,” I add, my meaning clear.
With a tic in his jaw, Rook hands me the bottle of conditioner. I feel victorious yet strangely sad when he does. I squeeze a massive amount in my hands and start working it through my long layers and tangles.
“Why are you in here in your uniform?” I ask, as I take him in while finger combing knots out of my hair.
He gives an unamused snort. “I didn’t think you’d be very receptive to my being naked in here with you, and I was in a hurry.” He shrugs, and his shoulders slump with defeat.
An electric jolt of sympathy strikes through my chest, but that just annoys me. Why do I care if he’s upset or bummed? What in the hell did he think I was going through when he didn’t come back for days? Did he even think about how that would feel or look to me?
With renewed justified anger, I rinse my hair again and reach for the washcloth and body wash. This time, he doesn’t intercept me. I lather the washcloth and get to work, ridding myself of dirt, his scent, our cum, and all the regret that sits like a layer of grime on my skin. I look at him as I scrub away what we did, but instead of tracking my motions with the washcloth over my naked and wet body, he stares right into my eyes.
I can almost read the apology and sorrow in his stare, but I’m just so...pissed. And I’m embarrassed. He affected me—hurt me—and I let him. I don’t like feeling vulnerable like that. I don’t like someone else having that sort of power over me.
Not paying attention to where I’m dragging the washcloth, I accidentally rub over the cut on my leg. I hiss out a curse of pain.
“It looks better already,” Rook observes.
“Yeah. I didn’t realize I was being so affected by the cold and whatever rusted grossness was in the iron. It was stupid to get weak like that,” I admit, and Rook’s sad eyes turn even more contrite. “I won’t let it happen again,” I declare, but I don’t know if I’m talking about the hypothermia and the wound...or us.
We’re quiet for a minute, and I step back into the spray, letting the rest of the suds rinse off. The heat once again wraps around me, and I wonder how long I could stand under the molten stream before it started to turn cold. The white collar criminals are going to be getting way more hot water usage than what the rest of us prisoners get. Lucky pricks.
“Thank you,” I finally say, breaking the silence. I may not like him, but I’m not an asshole.
“It was nothing,” he starts dismissively.
“No, it wasn’t nothing,” I insist stubbornly. “I was in bad shape, so thank you.”
Rook searches my face again, and I’ve never felt more grateful to have water pouring down on me, because it hides the tears that start sneaking out of my eyes.
“Sunrise, please just let me explain. If you won’t hear me out, then at least let me make it up to you. I’m begging here. What can I do to make this better?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly with the shake of my head, but my resolve wavers when another tear falls out. “I don’t know… No, definitely nothing,” I say again, wavering and pissed at my traitorous mouth for not being firmer.
Why is being mad so hard to maintain? I spent five days working myself up into a frenzy. Then he showed up and I let him have it, exactly like I should have. But he takes care of one little booboo and a case of the shivers, and suddenly his sad eyes are killing me? Why am I being such a sucker?
I fold my arms over my chest and look around the shower stall. “So what was your plan?” I ask, trying not to be affected by his emotions.
“The plan?” he asks, confused.
“Yeah, the plan. You had this whole shower situation set up before you brought me here, so what was your plan before you walked into my cell and saw the state I was in?”
Understanding dawns in his eyes, and he reaches behind his neck and palms his nape, like he’s suddenly all shy and shit. I’m not fooled.
“Well...I was going to entice you to the shower. Help you get cleaned up. Eat you out until you were wrung out and pliant, and then apologize until you were ready for angry sex,” he tells me casually, ticking off a mental list in his head.
I try not to react to anything that he says, but his words open the floodgates on my pussy, and my nipples harden against my will. Good thing my arms are folded over them, and my face is still in angry bitch mode.
