His hands skim the sides of my body, brushing over my ribs, my hips.
My pants and shoes are still back by the tree, but somehow I still feel the weight of being stripped bare by him now.
He moves with purpose.
Not rushed.
Present.
And it’s sexy as shit.
I stand there, naked in front of him, and I have never felt more seen.
More vulnerable.
More wanted.
The water begins to rain down, warm and even, and when he finally steps in behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist, I don’t say a word.
Because sometimes, silence says everything.
I usually hate showering with men. It’s awkward. Too cold. Someone’s always half out of the stream, pretending it’s fine. But this shower is built differently. This entire experience is different.
Nothing feels cramped or misplaced.
It feels easy.
Natural.
Like him.
He reaches behind me for a glass bottle tucked neatly on a shelf carved into the stone wall.
The label is hand-drawn—faded flowers sketched in delicate black ink, no brand name, no fancy packaging. Just… simple.
He pours a small amount of the body wash into his hand. The second it hits the air, I smell it—berries. Ripe and sweet, like crushed blackberries and warm sugar left in the sun.
“What is that?” I ask, breath hitching as his palms meet my skin—shoulders first, then arms, slow strokes that make the water feel hotter than it is.
“It’s a wash my mom makes,” he says, his voice quieter now, like we’ve both stepped into some other kind of intimacy. “I grow the fruit here in my garden—raspberries, blueberries, blackcurrants—and she makes soaps and body stuff to sell at flea markets. Mostly to her church friends.”
“That’s…” I stop myself because the wordadorablefeels wildly out of place when his hands are trailing down my back. “It smells amazing.”
“It’s her favorite blend,” he murmurs, his hands slick with suds now as he smooths the wash across my hips, then my belly, then lower.
“I can see why.” My voice comes out thinner than I expect, stretched tight by something sharp and unfamiliar.
The berries cling to my skin in the warm mist, their scent blooming around us as he keeps going, unhurried. His hands are steady. Certain. This isn’t new for him.
And the next thought hits harder than it should.
I want to know how many women he’s made feel exactly like this. How many have stood where I’m standing, breathing this same air, melting under that same quiet confidence.
The jealousy surprises me but I force myself to suppress it for now. To enjoy the sensation of this man.
When he slides one leg between mine to turn me under the water, I lean into him, my back pressed to his chest. I feel the beat of his heart there, stern and strong against my spine.
“You really built all this?” I whisper, just to keep myself from whimpering.
