When I return to the bathroom, the steam is thicker. She hasn't moved, just lies there, a pale, beautiful figure in the blue water. Her blonde hair is slicked back from her face, her skin flushed and pink from the heat and the sex. Her expression one of pure, unadulterated bliss.
I ease her forward, and she complies wordlessly, before stepping into the tub behind her. The hot water is a shock to my system. If it were me, it wouldn't be this hot. But women love boiling for some reason.
I ignore it and just settle in behind her, my legs on either side of her, and pull her back against my chest.
Her body is soft, warm, a perfect fit against mine. The water laps around us, a gentle, soothing rhythm.
My hands move to her shoulders, my thumbs working into the tight muscles. She tenses for a moment, a flinch of instinctual resistance.
"Relax," I murmur against her ear.
Then, with a shuddering breath, she yields, her body going limp in my arms.
I work my thumbs in slow, firm circles, easing the tension from her muscles. My hands slide down her arms, over the soft skin, the fine bones. I'm not just massaging her; I'm exploring her, learning her.
My hands move to her stomach, flat and soft, and I rest them there, just feeling the steady rise and fall of her breath. I can feel the frantic flutter of her pulse, a rapid, bird-like beat against my palm.
She's still nervous. Still uncertain.
My hands move lower, skimming over the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. Her breath hitches, her body tensing again. I can feel the tremor that runs through her.
My fingers find the hot, tender flesh between her legs. She flinches, a small, sharp intake of breath.
"Easy," I say again. "Just cleaning you up."
My touch is gentle, almost clinical. I wash away the evidence of our second encounter, my fingers moving with a slow, deliberate care. I'm not trying to arouse her. I'm taking care of her. And that's a new, unfamiliar, and frankly, unsettling feeling.
Once satisfied she's clean, I grab a bar of soap and lather it up in my hands. The scent is clean, crisp. I start with her back, my hands moving in slow, sweeping strokes. Her skin is smooth, soft, a pleasure to touch.
I soap her arms, her shoulders, her neck. I'm methodical, thorough. I'm worshipping her body with my touch, a silent apology for the roughness, for the possession.
My hands move around to her front, skimming over her breasts. The nipples pucker instantly, a hard, tight pebble against my palm. Her breath catches, a soft, needy sound.
I ignore it, my hands moving down her stomach, her hips, her legs.
I wash every inch of her, from the tips of her toes to the curve of her shoulders.
"You're quiet," I say, my voice a low murmur against her ear.
She shrugs, a small, helpless movement. "I don't know what to say."
Quickly, I wash myself, not bothering with the same care I took with her.
"Say what you're thinking," I say.
"I'm thinking I'm in a bathtub with a man who bought my virginity," she says, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. "What is there to think?"
The bluntness of her words is a splash of cold water. She's not wrong, but I don't like the reminder of the transaction that brought us here.
But it has to be addressed.
"You're upset, but I'm not the one who put you in this situation. You would be right here in this room anyway. With another man who could have been cruel, or worse."
I don't like the thought of that. Not in the slightest.
She's quiet for a long moment. "And you're not cruel?" she asks, her voice a whisper.
"I am. But not in the way you're implying. There's a difference between cruelty and control." I ease her away a bit. "I'm going to help you stand."
