"What time is it?"
"Early. Just after seven."
She groaned, burying her face in my chest. "Too early."
"We could stay in bed."
"Tempting." She tilted her head up to look at me. "But I need a shower. I feel like I ran a marathon last night."
"You did. Several times, if I recall correctly."
She swatted my chest, but she was smiling. "Modest as ever."
"I don't believe in false modesty." I caught her hand, pressed a kiss to her palm. "Shower sounds good, though. Join me?"
She hesitated, and I saw the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. Last night had been one thing—passion, need, the culmination of weeks of tension. This was something else. Daylight intimacy. The kind of closeness that meant something beyond sex.
"Okay," she said finally. "But no funny business. I'm actually sore."
"I'll be on my best behavior."
"Somehow I doubt that."
I led her to the bathroom, which was probably the most extravagant room in the penthouse—marble floors, a walk-in shower with multiple heads, a soaking tub that could fit four people comfortably. I'd had it designed when I bought the place, thinking I'd use it to impress the kind of women who were impressed by such things.
Now I was using it with a woman who barely glanced at the fixtures, more focused on adjusting the water temperature than admiring the Italian tile.
I stepped in behind her, the hot spray cascading over both of us, and reached for the soap. "Turn around."
She did, and I began working the lather across her shoulders, down her spine, over the curves I'd memorized with my hands and mouth just hours before. She sighed, leaning back into my touch, her tension melting under the heat and the pressure.
"This is nice," she said quietly.
"It is."
"I don't remember the last time someone took care of me like this."
"Then you've been with the wrong people."
"Maybe." She turned to face me, taking the soap from my hands. "My turn."
She washed me with the same careful attention, her fingers tracing the lines of my body like she was learning me by touch. When she reached my scars, she paused, her expression thoughtful.
"Do they still hurt?"
"Sometimes. When the weather changes, or when I've been too tense." I shrugged. "You learn to live with it."
"You've learned to live with a lot of things."
"So have you."
She didn't respond to that, just continued her methodical exploration. When her hands drifted lower, I caught her wrists.
"I thought you were sore."
"I am." But her eyes had darkened, and I could see the war playing out behind them. "Maybe a little soreness is worth it."
"Later," I said, and it took more willpower than I wanted to admit. "We have all the time in the world."
