I could get lost in this.
I wanted to get lost in this.
"Let me clean you."
I didn’t fight it. I grabbed the soap, lathering my hands before dragging them over his shoulders, down the hard lines of his chest, over the ridges of his abs.
His skin was hot beneath my fingers, every muscle taut, his body humming with tension.
He didn’t look away.
He watched me, his jaw tight, his breath coming in shallow, uneven pulls as I moved lower, dragging my fingers slowly down his hips, over his cock.
He sucked in a breath, his hand finding my hip, gripping harder.
I stroked him slowly, teasing, enjoying the way his muscles locked, the way his chest rose and fell faster.
Then I let go.
He growled, the sound low and deadly, and before I could blink, he had me spun around, my back pressing against his chest.
"My turn to clean you."
"Fuck yeah."
His hands moved over me, slow, teasing, mapping me out like he was committing me to memory.
When he reached for the shampoo, telling me to turn around, I almost laughed.
Then his fingers slid into my hair, working through the strands so gently, and my throat went tight.
Because this felt different.
This wasn’t just sex.
This was care.
And fuck, that made it worse.
My chest ached, something uncomfortable and sharp pressing against my ribs.
No one had ever washed my hair for me.
Ever.
I had spent so much time being self-sufficient, making sure I didn’t need anyone, that the simple act of someone doing something for me with no expectations left me completely unraveled.
"Here, baby. Rinse."
I let the water wash over me, hiding my face, hiding the evidence of everything I wasn’t ready to say.
When we finally stepped out, when we were clean and warm and wrapped up in each other, I knew I had to get out of there.
But I didn’t move.
Because Brooks pulled me into him, spooning me, pressing his face against my neck, his arms wrapped tight around my body.
"Let’s sleep, Mitch."
