When we reach the bathroom, I turn on the shower to let it heat up. Steam begins to fill the room as I turn back to face her. The way she’s looking at me—like I’m her knight in shining armor, something worthy—makes my chest ache.
“You sure about this?” I ask, my voice rough, even to my own ears.
She steps closer, her fingers finding the buttons of her borrowed shirt—my shirt—and begins undoing them one by one. “I’m sure about you, Devlin.”
Christ, she’s going to be the death of me.
I watch, transfixed, as she reveals herself inch by inch. When the shirt falls open, exposing the curves of her breasts and the flat plane of her stomach, I have to clench my fists to keep from reaching for her.
“Your turn,” she whispers, and there’s vulnerability in her eyes that reminds me to take this slow, to be gentle.
I pull the T-shirt I wear under my flannel over my head, aware of her gaze traveling over my chest, lingering on the tattoos that map the story of my life across my skin. When her fingers trace the scar that runs along my ribs, a souvenir from a mission gone sideways in a place I’m still not allowed to talk about, I shiver.
“Does it hurt?” she asks.
“Not anymore.”
We undress each other slowly, like we have all the time in the world. When we’re both naked, I take a moment just to look at her, to commit every curve and line of her body to memory.
“You’re beautiful,” I tell her, because it’s the truth and because some things need to be said out loud.
Color rises to her cheeks, but she doesn’t look away. “So are you.”
I lead her into the shower, the hot water cascading over us. For a moment, we just stand there, letting the warmth surround us, her back against my chest, my arms wrapped around her waist. I press my lips to her shoulder, tasting the water on her skin. My hand moves up, taking one of her breasts in my hands,and the other travels to curl around her neck, pulling the back of her head against my collarbone.
“This okay?” I murmur against her neck.
She turns in my arms, her hands sliding up my chest. “More than okay.”
When she kisses me, it’s different from before. It’s slower, deeper, like she’s trying to memorize the taste of me. I lose myself in the sensation of her mouth, her hands, her body pressed against mine under the steady stream of water.
I reach for the shampoo, pouring some into my palm. “Turn around,” I tell her.
She does, and I work the shampoo into her long, dark hair, massaging her scalp with my fingertips. A soft moan escapes her lips, and the sound goes straight through me. I’ve never done this for anyone before. I never wanted to. But with Atlee, everything feels different. New.
After I rinse her hair, she returns the favor, her small hands working through my much shorter strands, nails scraping lightly against my scalp. It’s such a simple thing, but it feels intimate in a way that catches me off guard.
When she reaches for the soap, I catch her wrist. “Atlee, we need to slow down.”
Her brow furrows. “You don’t want this? We’ve already done it before.”
“That’s not it.” I cup her face with my hands, forcing myself to say what needs to be said. “I want you. More than I’ve wanted anything in a long damn time. But you’ve been through something traumatic, and I don’t want to take advantage of that. Last night was about me making sure you were okay. Tonight would be me being selfish.”
“You’re not taking advantage,” she argues, her wet hands coming to rest on my forearms. “I know what I want, Devlin.”
“I believe you,” I tell her, brushing my thumb across her cheekbone. “But I also know that sometimes, after something like what happened to you, you look for ways to feel safe, to feel in control again, and I don’t want to be just that for you.”
She’s quiet for a moment, water droplets clinging to her eyelashes. “Is that what you think this is? Me using you because I’m scared?”
“No,” I say quickly. “That’s not what I meant. I just…” I struggle to find the right words. “I want to be sure that whatever happens between us is happening for the right reasons. For both of us.”
Her expression softens, and she rises on her tiptoes to press a gentle kiss to my lips. “Okay,” she whispers. “We’ll take it slow from here on out.”
Relief and disappointment war within me as I nod. “Thank you.”
We finish our shower with gentle touches and soft kisses, nothing more. By the time we step out, the bathroom mirror is completely fogged over. I wrap her in a towel before securing one around my own waist.
“I’ll get you something to sleep in,” I tell her, heading to my dresser. I pull out an old T-shirt and a pair of drawstring shorts for her and a pair of sweatpants for myself. Although Lennon gave me her clothes, I really love the look of her in my stuff.
