“You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” He kisses the top of my head, locking eyes with me in the mirror. “Come on. The water’s ready.”
Wiping away the tears racing down my cheek, I follow his lead.
Before I get in the tub, he takes a knee and removes my boot. The air feels good against my skin, but I’m surprised how difficult it is to get in the tub without putting pressure on my foot. Even worse is submerging my body into the Epsom salts and hot water. My scratches sting, and I hiss as my bum finally hits the bottom of the porcelain.
The clawfoot tub is luxurious, but it’s also six feet long, which means I’m too short to touch the other end. I know this from experience. The night of Winter Fest, we shared a bottle of wine while soaking in this tub. I’m too sore to brace myself against the sides to keep from drowning. So, Owen strips down and slips in behind me, his body preventing mine from sliding comlpetley under the water.
Once we’re settled, surrounded by bubbles, he washes my body. He’s careful. Attentive. Gentle and purposeful. When the bath sponge brushes over my tight nipples, I gasp from the sensation, but he doesn’t linger. When he reaches between my legs, I let my head fall back against his shoulder, and when my eyes flicker to his, he closes his and the sponge moves on, leaving me desperate for more before he’s even started.
His erection presses into my back, but he doesn’t address it. That isn’t what this is about. I knew that going in. Regardless ofthe lothario he portrays to the world, he is a man of upstanding character. I trust him completely.
The only words spoken are when we have to adjust so he can wash and condition my hair. Luckily, my hair barely brushes my shoulders, making the job easier for him.
Once I’m clean from head to toe, he stands, taking half the water with him before helping me up and out of the tub. Ignoring himself, he rushes to dry me off, so I don’t get cold.
Only when I’m dry, in his robe, with my hair wrapped in a towel, does he finally take care of himself. Then he leaves me sitting on the side of the tub, keeping one eye on me as he collects my lotion. With only his towel around his waist, he drops to a knee, lifting each foot and applying lotion. My robe falls open as he works his way up my legs, spreading them so he can reach my inner thighs. I’ve seen my body, so I know none of this is a turn on for him. He has no salacious intent. So, I’m not sure how in my state I still want him. But I do. His touch always crosses the wires running between my head and my libido. I can’t help but wonder if he notices how wet I am for him. He likely thinks I’ve got a screw loose if he notices how turned on I am. But if he does, he doesn’t acknowledge it.
He helps me into my extremely sexy boot and then offers me a hand so I can stand. When I do, he unties the robe and pushes it off my shoulders, leaving me bare so he can lotion my backside, before moving in front of me to massage the moisturizer into my chest, over my breasts and stomach.
My body is tender from the damage caused by my fall, and the lotion burns on my cuts. Still, everything about this moment is decadent, even if it’s not sexual. It’s a reminder of the care he took of me in Hawaii and Los Angeles. Attention I’ve allowed no one else to provide.
Only Owen.
When I tickle his abs with the tips of my fingers, he slowly shakes his head in that sexy, bossy way, sending goose bumps across my skin. Even with his rejection, my core throbs, and I grow warm. I know it’s less of a rejection and more of a reminder that this isn’t about sex. It’s something much more important than that to him.
Once he finishes with the lotion, he drapes his robe back over my shoulders and places a kiss on my forehead. Rubbing my thighs together to ease the ache he won’t be subsiding, I get another wave of goose bumps.
“Stay,” he demands as he leaves the room.
Does he know his do as you’re told tone turns me on the way it does? Is he torturing me on purpose?
Not even a minute passes before he returns with clothes in hand. When he gets close, he leans in and whispers, “Good girl,” in my ear.
Well, shit. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Hands on my shoulders, sweetheart.”
I do as instructed, and he helps me shimmy into a clean pair of underwear, then he covers me in an extra-large sweatshirt that saysSupport Farmers, Drink Whiskey. I’ve seen him wear it many times over the years. It’s soft and worn in.
It’s him.
I’m never giving it back.
And just when I think the man couldn’t be sweeter, he closes the lid to the toilet and tells me to take a seat, and then he blow-dries my hair.
It’s sweet. It’s sexy. It hurts my aching head, but I don’t say a word. I wouldn’t dare put an end to being taken care of like this.
By him.
It’s strange how exhausted I am, considering he did all the work. So, when he sets me up in his bed, I don’t resist. He fussesover me, making sure I have enough pillows and that I’m as comfortable as I can be with my foot elevated.
He leaves the room but isn’t gone long. When he returns, his arms are loaded up with my favorite snacks, the water bottle he bought in Lahaina on our trip to Hawaii full of ice-cold water and my e-reader. My heart swells, unsure it can take any more without waving the white flag and succumbing to the man.
“I’m logged into all my streaming services, but you shouldn’t spend too many hours with electronics until the doc says it’s okay. Let me know if you want to play a game or do a puzzle. I can set something up for us on the bed.”
“The service at Chateau Swift is top-notch. I might just never leave.”
“This is where you belong, so that’s fine by me. Maui agrees, don’t you, girl?” he says nonchalantly, picking the dog up and kissing her head.
