I do. Hands braced on the wall, ass presented.
He slams back in from behind. Deeper this way. Hitting something inside me that makes white sparks explode behind my eyes.
One hand wraps around my throat—not choking, just holding. The other finds my clit and rubs fast, merciless circles.
“Tell me you still love me,” he rasps. “Even if you hate me. Tell me.”
“I—” My voice cracks. “I can’t…”
“Anne. Say it anyway.”
Hearing him say my name right now is my undoing. Tears stream down my face. “I love you,” I choke out. “Even though I can’t forgive you, I’ve never stopped loving you, Kain.”
He groans like I’ve wounded him. His rhythm turns erratic, desperate. He’s on the edge; I can feel it.
“I’m gonna come inside you,” he warns. “Gonna fill you up so deep, you’ll feel me for days. So if I die, you’ll still have part of me leaking out of you.”
It seems he’s been thinking about that, too.
The filthy words, the fear, the brutal pleasure…it’s too much. I come again, violently, shaking and screaming against the tile.
He follows right after, growling my name, hips slamming one last time as he empties inside me. Pulse after hot pulse, and I feel every single one.
We stay locked together for a long time. Water pouring. Breathing ragged.
Slowly, he pulls out, and I whimper at the loss.
He turns me gently and cups my face, kissing me softly now, slowly, reverently. His tongue tastes of salt and regret.
We clean each other after that. The water feels gentle now, warm and steady, washing away the evidence of what we just did but not the weight of it.
Kain reaches for the shampoo and squeezes some into his palm. His hands move to my hair so attentively, it makes my throat tight. His fingers work through the strands slowly, massaging my scalp with a tenderness that feels almost worshipful.
I close my eyes, letting myself feel it. The gentle pressure of his fingertips. The slide of soap through my hair. The way he’s so careful not to tug or pull, like I’m something precious he’s afraid of breaking.
When was the last time someone touched me like this? Like I mattered?
He guides me under the spray, one hand cupping the back of my head to keep the water from my face as he rinses the shampoo away. The gesture is so protective, so instinctively caring, that tears prick at my eyes.
I reach for the shampoo when he’s done, but my hands are shaking slightly. He notices—of course he notices—but doesn’t say anything. Just bows his head to give me better access.
His hair is thick and dark, longer than I remember from when we were teenagers. I work the shampoo through it, my fingers finding the shape of his skull beneath. Strong. Solid. Alive.
I rinse carefully, watching the suds slide down his neck, over his shoulders, and disappearing down the drain.
Then, I reach for the soap.
My hands move to his chest first. Safe territory. I trace the planes of muscle there, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath my palm. It’s beating fast. Almost as fast as mine.
I move lower, washing his stomach, his sides, his back. The scars, burns, and whip marks. Some are barely visible. Others are raised, the skin having healed wrong because there was no one to tend to the wounds properly.
My fingers pause on a particularly vicious one across his ribs—wolfsbane burn, I think. The kind that eats through flesh slowly, agonizingly.
I soap my hands again and continue. Each scar gets my attention. My touch. My silent acknowledgment of what he survived.
There are so many. So, so many.
My vision blurs with tears that mix with shower water as they stream down. Kain’s hands come up to cup my face, thumbs brushing across my cheeks even though the water washes the tears away as fast as they fall.
