My gaze traces down his spine to the narrow cut of his hips, and lower, and the heat that's been simmering since I woke flares brighter. He glances back at the bathroom doorway, catches me looking.
A knowing smile curves his mouth. "You're making it very hard to walk away from that bed."
I blink innocently at him. "Am I?"
He shakes his head, chuckling under his breath before disappearing into the bathroom. A moment later, the sound of water echoes against marble. Steam begins to drift through the open doorway.
I stretch against the sheets, my body loose and languid, and give myself another moment before I rise. On bare feet I pad into the bathroom to join him. The marble tiles are cool beneath my soles, but the air is warm and humid, fragrant with the expensive body wash we both use.
Nick already stands beneath the rain showerhead, water streaming over his shoulders, his chest, running in rivulets down his body. He's turned away from me, head tipped back, letting the spray hit his face.
He's beautiful. I've thought it a thousand times, but it strikes me fresh each time I see him like this—unguarded, unhurried, stripped of the armor he wears in boardrooms and business meetings. Just the man beneath all that power.
I step into the shower behind him. The hot water hits my skin, almost too warm, then perfect. I press my palms flat against his back, and he makes a low sound of pleasure.
"There you are."
He turns, water streaming between us. His hands move to my waist, steadying me, pulling me closer, his thumbs tracing circles against my hip bones. We stand like that for a moment, the spray falling over us both, and I let myself sink into the simple pleasure of it. His skin slick and warm beneath my palms. The clean scent of soap and steam. The solid reality of him.
"Turn around," he says. "Let me wash your hair."
I obey, presenting my back to him, and I hear him reach for the shampoo bottle on the built-in shelf. Then his hands are in my hair, fingers working the lather through, and the sensation makes my eyes flutter closed.
This is intimacy of a different kind. It’s tender, almost unbearably gentle. His fingers massage my scalp, finding the spots where I carry tension, pressing and releasing until my head tips back into his touch. A sound escapes me, something between a sigh and a moan.
"Good?" His voice is low, close to my ear.
"Mm-hm. Don't stop."
His chest vibrates with a quiet laugh, and I feel him step closer, the heat of his body against my back even through the warm water. His hands continue their slow, thorough work, and I could dissolve into this. Could let him take care of me forever.
He guides me backward under the spray, shielding my eyes with one broad palm as the water rinses the suds away. When my hair runs clean, I turn to face him.
"My turn."
I pour body wash into my hands, work it into a lather, and begin at his shoulders. Broad, muscled, strong enough to carry the weight of empires. I map the terrain of him with my palms, down his arms, across his chest, my fingers trailing through the dark hair that scatters down his stomach.
When I reach his right forearm, I slow. The scars are raised and uneven beneath my fingertips, the skin a different texture where the plate glass tore through the flesh years before I met him. His father's violence made permanent. The wound that ended Nick’s artistic dreams before they could truly begin.
I trace the scars gently, reverently, the way I always do. I don't comment. This is simply part of loving him. Accepting every piece, every mark, every shadow.
Nick goes still beneath my hands. I feel the slight tension in his muscles, the way his breath catches. The old shame is still there. I can see it flicker behind his eyes when I look up at him. It never fully leaves.
But I hold his gaze, let him see everything I feel, and after a moment his shoulders ease. His scarred hand rises to cup the back of my head, water streaming between us, and he pulls me into a kiss. Deep and slow and grateful. I taste the water on his lips, feel the tremor of emotion he rarely lets show.
When we break apart, his forehead rests against mine.
"I can’t wait to be your wife," I say softly. "I keep thinking about walking down that aisle to you, with my mom at my side to give me away."
Asking her to present me to Nick at the front of the church was something he and I both agreed on early. It hurts not to have my real father, Daniel, there to walk me down the aisle. Mom says he’ll be watching from heaven. I like to think she’s right.
Nick watches me, his thumb stroking along my jaw. "She's going to cry. You know that."
I laugh, but it's thick with emotion. "We're both going to cry. It's going to be a disaster."
"No. It's going to be perfect." His voice is certain, the way he says everything. As though reality will simply rearrange itself to match his expectations. As it so often does. "Your mother walking you down that aisle, giving you to me. It's exactly right, angel."
"She gave up so much for me," I whisper, swamped with memories of those awful years back in Pennsylvania. The monster who became my stepfather. The gunshot that ended his life. My fingers trembling on the trigger.
