I shrug one shoulder, but don’t unwind from my tight ball. If I let go, I’ll just be sitting here, wet and naked, while he’s out there. I don’tlikethat. “Um…”
“Tell me,” he murmurs.
Oddly, the softly spoken order gives me permission, making me feel free to say what I want without fear of how he’ll react. He asked. I’m just doing what he wants. “Will you… get in here with me? You can wash my hair if you want, but I want you to hold me,” I say, feeling so ridiculously small and childish that I want to suck the words back in. Only a child asks to be held for comfort; I’m a grown-ass woman. So I clear my throat and explain, “When you hold me, I feel a lot safer.” I need to be so surrounded and consumed by him that there’s no room for the bad thoughts.
His smile is kind, almost indulgent. “I can do that.”
He’s meticulous and deliberate as he unbuttons his shirt and hangs it on the hook on the back of the door. His pants get folded and placed on the counter. And then he’s naked.
I feel my face flush as I look my fill. He’s a work of art.
When he starts moving closer to the tub, I release my legs and scoot forward to give him room to climb in behind me. The white flash of his tight ass as he climbsin makes me bite my lip. Suddenly, I can’t wait to have my hands all over his lean muscles and hard body again.
How appropriate that lust is what breaks me through this cold shell of shock.
Water sloshes around as he maneuvers into place, stretching his long legs on either side of mine. I feel one of his hands against my waist, and a flash of fear sends a shiver down my spine.
Suddenly, I’m being grabbed from behind in the alley…
But then I look down and I see the tattoo on Wesley’s hand. I smell his delicious, strange scent all around me. I feel his warm, solid body holding me with such gentleness.
And then there’s his cock digging into my back.
I’m here. I’m safe. He’s got me.
The fear melts away as we sit silently, and eventually I realize I’ve matched his deep, measured breathing without meaning to.
There’s something odd about the eroticism of this—being naked together, being in the bath—that only occurs to me when I realize that he doesn’t intend to do anything about his hard-on. Even though we’re both willing and turned on. I’m not sure I’ve ever been naked with a man with no expectation of sex.
“Turn on the faucet and hand me the wand, please,” he instructs, tone firm but gentle.
My stomach flips at the demand, blood immediately rushing between my legs and an urgent kind of tingling sweeping across the tips of my breasts. Oh, the fun I’ve had with showerhead wands.
Okay, it turns out there issomeexpectation of sex. It’s just coming from me.
Dutifully, I reach forward, pluck it out of its holder, turn it on and hand it to him. He smooths a hand down my hair, encouraging me to lean back, and runs the water along my hairline like they do at salons. Once he gets my massive, thick mane nice and wet, he starts gently working the shampoo into my scalp.
I close my eyes and surrender to the tingly feeling of someone else’s fingers in my hair. As he washes, I can feel my erratic pulse evening out and my nervous system slowly releasing the last of the anxiety and fear. He’s calming me. Grounding me. Making sure I feel safe.
He rinses, then conditions without me even having to tell him to.
“Someone knows the rules of feminine haircare,” I tease, eyes still closed.
He chuckles. “It says right on the bottle: wash, rinse, repeat.”
“You don’t have to repeat,” I tell him with a small smile, knowing he knows.
“Noted.”
He finishes working the conditioner through, rinses that out too, then encourages me to lean back against him. I sigh, settling against his chest with my fresh, clean hair. He’s warm and solid, and I just want to melt into him. I tend to float, but Wesley wraps his arms around my middle and keeps me anchored to him.
He uses the wand to rinse the soapy water off my arms and chest. My back bows, offering him my breasts to touch, but he holds back.
“I feel like a prat for using you like that earlier,” he says softly.
“What? Don’t,” I reply immediately, hating the hints of self-condemnation in his voice. “No, that was me. I’m the one who jumped all over you. Besides… I liked it. I wanted it.”
He’s quiet for a few seconds—enough to make me a bit self-conscious—then the arm around my waist moves and his hand strokes lower, down my belly.
