My hand shoots out to catch his wrist before I can think better of it. “No,” I say, then hesitate, swallowing hard. “Please don’t leave.”
His gaze rakes over my body, my soaked jeans clinging to my skin. “Stay,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the shower spray. My fingers tremble against his wrist, but I don’t let go. “I want you to stay.”
His eyes search mine, looking for any sign of uncertainty. “Are you sure?”
I nod, gathering every ounce of courage I possess. With shaking fingers, I reach for the hem of my soaked shirt andslowly peel it upward. The fabric clings stubbornly to my skin, and I struggle. Without a word, Shepherd gently helps me, his fingers careful not to brush against my bare skin as he lifts the shirt over my head.
“Thank you,” I murmur, standing before him in my wet bra, feeling exposed but somehow not afraid.
“Do you want me to turn around?” he asks, his voice rough.
I shake my head. “No.”
I reach behind me to unclasp my bra, letting it fall away. Shepherd’s eyes never leave mine, not even for a second, and that respect makes something bloom in my chest. I fumble with the button on my jeans. The wet denim resists, slippery and stubborn under my fingers. Shepherd watches me struggle for only a moment before he kneels, his hands replacing mine.
“Let me,” Shepherd says softly, and I nod, grateful.
His fingers work the button free with gentle efficiency. Our eyes lock as he slowly lowers the zipper, his knuckles barely grazing my stomach. The intimacy of the moment steals my breath. He helps me step out of the jeans, leaving me standing before him in just my underwear, but there’s nothing sexual in his gaze, only concern and something that looks remarkably like reverence.
“You’re freezing,” he says, his voice rough around the edges.
I nod, unable to deny the violent shivers still wracking my body despite the warm water. Wordlessly, I hook my thumbs into the waistband of my underwear and slide them down my legs, stepping out of them completely. Naked now, I stand before him, vulnerable in every possible way.
Shepherd’s eyes hold mine with unwavering respect. He reaches for the hem of his own soaked shirt, pulls it over his head, and tosses it onto the growing pile of wet clothes. His sweatpants follow, then his underwear, until he stands before me equally exposed.
I’ve seen attractive men before, but Shepherd’s body is something else entirely. Powerful yet gentle, strong yet somehow safe. My eyes travel the length of him, taking in every detail, from the contours of his chest to the rigid lines of his forearms to his thick cock.
Holy shit, his cock.
It’s large enough to challenge credulity, flushed at the tip and bobbing slightly under its own weight. It’s the kind you’d see in anatomical diagrams, but with a slight upward curve. Impressive is definitely an understatement and under any other circumstances, I might be on my knees begging to swallow him. My attraction growing for him even more as he’s not currently trying to cage me in and force me to take him.
On the contrary, when I lift my eyes and meet his gaze again, there’s no judgment there, only patience and understanding. The sight of him nearly takes my breath away, but it’s not just his physical beauty that affects me. It’s the equality he’s creating between us. He’s making himself as vulnerable as I am and I couldn’t appreciate that more.
He bows his head momentarily and then catches my gaze again. “I’m sorry,” he says, hopelessly gesturing to his obvious state of arousal. “It’s just because I’m attracted to you. It’ll calm down in a minute, I promise.”
Without another thought I step into his space and wrap my arms around his waist, burying my head in his chest. The warm water flowing over us is nice, but I don’t even notice it now. He wraps his arms around my body, his hand trailing smooth lines up and down my back. The gentle, tender touch warms my soul with every passing second. I melt into him, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath my cheek. How strange that the very thing that terrified me an hour ago—his touch, his nearness—now feels like the only thing keeping me grounded.
“Can I wash your hair?” he asks, his voice a gentle rumble against my ear.
I nod against his chest, not trusting my voice. Shepherd reaches past me for the shampoo, his movements careful and deliberate. He works the shampoo into a lather between his palms before his fingers sink into my hair. A soft moan escapes me as he massages my scalp with just the right pressure and I nearly collapse against him. No one has done this for me since I was a child. The tenderness of it makes my throat tighten. His thumbs work small circles at my temples, releasing tension I didn’t even know I was carrying.
“Close your eyes,” he murmurs, tilting my head back slightly to rinse away the suds. His palm shields my forehead, preventing soap from running into my eyes. Such a small gesture of care, yet it undoes something within me. There’s something so intimate about this—more intimate than sex could ever be—this gentle act of washing another person’s hair. His strong fingers work the conditioner through my strands next, carefully untangling knots with a patience I’ve never experienced from anyone before.
“That feels amazing,” I whisper, the words escaping before I can stop them.
“Good,” he replies, his voice warm and comforting.
When the last of the suds disappear down the drain, I feel strangely renewed. Clean in a way that goes beyond my skin. His hands move to my shoulders next, working the tension from muscles I didn’t realize were knotted until his touch begins to unravel them.
“My turn?” I ask softly, looking up at him through wet lashes.
Shepherd’s eyes widen slightly, like he wasn’t expecting me to offer. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to,” I whisper, reaching for the shampoo bottle. “Please.”
He has to bend down for me to reach his head properly, and there’s something both vulnerable and powerful about the way he lowers himself for me. I work the shampoo between my palms before threading my fingers through his thick hair. His eyes close immediately, his expression softening as I massage his scalp. A low, appreciative sound rumbles from his chest, and the vibration of it travels straight through me.
I take my time, memorizing the contours of his head, the way his hair feels between my fingers. When I rinse away the suds, my hands linger, tracing the strong line of his jaw, the strong column of his throat. I’ve never been this gentle with a man before. I’ve never wanted to be. But with Shepherd, something in me yearns to give the same care he’s showing me.
