"Stay," I instructed as I turned to adjust the water temperature. When I was satisfied, I turned back to find her watching me with a mix of amusement and affection that made my heart do strange things inside my chest.
"Are you always this bossy after sex?" she asked.
With a grin, I tugged my t-shirt over my head and dropped it to the floor. "Only when it matters."
Her eyes tracked the movement, darkening slightly as they took in my exposed chest and abs. "It matters?"
Stepping closer, I cupped her face between my palms. "You matter," I corrected, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. "This matters."
The vulnerability in her eyes nearly undid me. I guided her into the shower, the hot spray enveloping us in a cloud of steam.I reached for the body wash, pouring a generous amount into my palm before lathering it across her shoulders.
"You don't have to do this," she protested weakly, though she made no move to stop me.
"I want to," I assured her, my hands working the soap into her skin with firm, steady strokes. I took my time, mapping every curve, every dip and hollow of her body with my hands. When I reached her breasts, I paid special attention to them, cupping their weight and running my thumbs over her nipples until they hardened into tight peaks again.
Sighing. she arched into my touch. "That feels amazing."
I continued my exploration, hands sliding down her stomach, over her hips and finally between her thighs. I was gentle here, mindful of her sensitivity after our vigorous activities. She winced slightly when my fingers brushed against her swollen flesh, but didn't pull away.
"Sorry," I murmured, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. "Too much?"
She shook her head. "No, just... sensitive. In a good way."
I finished washing her, then stepped back to let the spray rinse the suds from her body. The sight of water cascading down her curves, highlighting the marks I'd left on her skin—finger-shaped bruises on her hips, a darkening spot on her neck—sent a fresh wave of possessiveness through me.
Mine, some primitive part of my brain insisted. She's mine.
Once she was rinsed clean, I reached for the shampoo, but she stopped me with a hand on my arm.
"My turn," she said, echoing her earlier words as she took the bottle from me. I bent slightly at the knees to make it easier for her to reach my head, and work the shampoo into a lather against my scalp. The feeling was so unexpectedly intimate, so tender, that I had to close my eyes against the emotion welling up inside me.
We finished washing each other in companionable silence, trading soft touches and occasional kisses that held none of the earlier desperation but all of the affection. By the time we stepped out of the shower, I felt different somehow, lighter, as if some weight I hadn't even known I'd been carrying had been lifted from my shoulders.
I wrapped Cecelia in one of the plush towels from the warming rack, taking my time to dry her thoroughly. She leaned into my touch, eyes half-closed with contentment, like a cat being petted. When I was satisfied that she was dry, I scooped her up in my arms again.
"I think my legs actually work now," she pointed out.
"I know." I carried her through to the bedroom, where the king-sized bed waited. "But this is better."
I gently placed her on the bed, then shed my own towel before climbing in beside her. Our bodies naturally gravitated toward each other, limbs tangling until she was curled against my side and her head rested on my chest.
"Thank you," she murmured, voice already heavy with approaching sleep.
"For what?"
"For cooking dinner. For making me come twice. For carrying me to bed like I'm something precious." She tilted her face up to look at me, those green eyes serious in the dim light. "For wanting something real."
I tightened my arm around her waist, pulling her more securely against me. "Thank you for the same," I whispered. "Minus the cooking."
Her laugh vibrated against my chest, and I couldn't help but smile. I pressed a kiss to the top of her head and breathed in the clean scent of her hair.
"Sleep now," I told her, my own eyes growing heavy. "We have time for everything else."
As she drifted off in my arms, I marveled at the turn my life had taken. When I'd proposed this arrangement, I'd thought I knew exactly what I wanted. What I needed. But Cecelia had upended all my careful plans, all my defensive walls, until I found myself wanting things I'd never allowed myself to consider before.
A real marriage. A real life together. A future that extended far beyond the terms of our original agreement.
And as sleep claimed me, I knew with absolute certainty that I'd do whatever it took to make that future a reality. To make us real, permanently. Because I wasn't letting her go. Not now. Not ever.
