"You are unsteady."
"I'mfine."
He ignores me.
He carries me across the suite to the small attached bathroom, sets me down gently on the counter, and turns on the sink.
Warm water floods the basin.
He wets a clean towel, wrings it out, and then—with the same grave, formal expression he uses to discuss corporate security protocols—begins gently cleaning the dried oil and sweat from my skin.
I sit there, stunned into silence, as he methodically wipes down my arms, my stomach, my thighs.
His touch is feather-light.
Reverent.
Like I'm made of glass.
"You know I'm a massage therapist, right?" I say finally. "I'm literally trained to handle bodily fluids. I can clean myself."
"I know."
"Then why—"
"Because I want to."
I blink.
He finishes cleaning my thighs, sets the towel aside, and then cups my face in his hands.
"You took care of me," he says quietly. "Now I will take care of you."
My throat tightens.
I don't know what to say to that.
So I don't say anything.
I just let him finish cleaning me up, his movements careful and precise, like he's performing surgery.
When he's done, he wraps a fresh towel around my shoulders and carries me back to the furs.
"Okay," I say as he sets me down. "This is getting ridiculous. I need to—"
He disappears.
One second he's standing in front of me.
The next he's across the suite, moving with that unnatural, silent speed that makes my brain short-circuit.
He returns thirty seconds later carrying two things:
A fresh bottle of my high-end organic orange juice from the clinic's beverage fridge.
