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He laughs, low and rough.

"Come on, darlin'. Let's hop in the shower."

He helps me off the table, keeping a hand at my waist until my feet are steady.

"Knee?"

"Still attached. Still working."

"Smartass."

"You knew that before you took my clothes off."

His grin is downright wicked.

He leads me down the hallway, his fingers linked with mine.

He adjusts the water. When it's warm enough, we step beneath the spray together.

For once, he doesn't seem interested in teasing.

He washes my hair with surprising care, his big hands gentle against my scalp. I close my eyes and lean into his touch.

"You do this for all the women you bring home?" I ask.

His hands still.

"Don't bring women home."

I open my eyes.

"Oh."

"Just you, my little chaos."

My heart does something embarrassingly dramatic.

I turn and slip my arms around his waist, resting my cheek against his chest.

He holds me for a moment before reaching for the soap.

"Turn around, darlin'."

I obey, and he washes my back, his hands moving slowly over my skin.

When he's done, I take the soap from him.

"My turn."

He raises an eyebrow but turns around.

I run the soap over his broad shoulders and down his back, following the lines of his tattoos.

Good grief. Even washing this man is distracting.

Such a big, intimidating man.

Such ridiculously gentle hands.