"Does it hurt?" she asks, reaching out. Her fingertips brush the scar tissue.
My muscles seize. No one touches me there without getting their hand broken. But her touch sends a jolt straight to my groin.
"Old news," I grunt. "Doesn't hurt anymore."
I take her hand and pull her up. "Get in."
We step into the spray. The water scalds, just the way I like it. It beats down on my shoulders, washing away the tension. Savannah gasps, turning her face into the spray, hair plastering to her back.
I grab the bar of soap—rough, handmade stuff—and lather my hands.
"Turn around," I order.
She obeys. I step in close, chest pressing against her back. I run soapy hands over her shoulders, down her arms, kneading the muscles. She groans, head falling back against my shoulder.
"You’re tight," I murmur against her wet ear.
"You’re… big," she whispers back.
I smirk. "I know."
My hands slide down to her waist, then lower. I cup her hips, pulling her back until her ass presses firmly against my hardening cock. She can feel me. No hiding the effect she has on me.
"Spread your legs a little, sweetheart."
She widens her stance. My hand slips between her thighs to wash her. She flinches, anticipating pain, but I’m gentle. I clean away the blood and the evidence of my claiming. An act—cleaning my own mess—but also reverence. This body took me. Held me.
"Logan," she gasps, hands gripping the tiled wall.
I keep the rhythm steady, careful not to push her too far. She’s swollen, sensitive. I kiss the wet skin of her neck, biting lightly at the cord of muscle. She trembles, knees shaking. I support her weight with one arm wrapped around her waist.
This isn’t about getting off. This is about binding her to me. Making her associate this safety and heat with me alone.
"You did good," I whisper into her ear. "Took everything I gave you."
When she stops shaking, I turn off the water and wrap her in a towel before she catches a chill, carrying her back out to the main room.
I sit on the edge of the bed, pulling her into my lap. She rests her head on my shoulder, looking exhausted and thoroughly ravished.
"Hungry?" I ask.
She nods against my chest. "Starving."
"I’ll make eggs. There’s bacon in the cooler."
"Logan?"
"Yeah?"
She pulls back enough to look at me. Her eyes are clear now, the haze fading into intensity. "What happens when the snow melts?"
I hold her gaze. My face remains stone, but inside, my heart hammers a warning rhythm.
"Nothing changes," I tell her. "I take you down the mountain. You see the clubhouse. You meet my brothers. They need to know who you are."
"Who am I?" she asks, voice barely a whisper.
I run my thumb over her bottom lip, dragging it down to expose the wet pink inner flesh.
