Page 68 of Don't Leave Me Behind
When we get to the bathroom, I twist the handle to get the water heating. Clay brings his hands up to the buttons on his shirt. His fingers fumbling, unable to remove them with how bad they’re shaking. I cover his hands with mine, holding them until they stop trembling. Steam starts to billow out of the shower. I finish unbuttoning his shirt, but I pause because the buttons are fake.
“Zipper,” he whispers, his voice barely audible over the stream of the shower. I narrow my eyes, not trusting the falsebuttons on his shirt before I find a zipper under the collar. The tricky bastards hid a zipper under the button placket. It’s kind of genius, actually.
I slide the uniform shirt from his shoulders, and it drops to the floor before I move onto his belt. He sucks in a breath after I pull his undershirt out of his pants and slip my fingers beneath the hem so I can pull it off him. He bends forward to help get it over his head.
When he straightens, I can’t help but look at the tattoo that covers his chest. It’s a mountain scene. The sun is peeking over the top of the mountains, trees, and a river sitting at the base of them, and to the left of it, a separate tattoo sits. They didn’t cover it or incorporate it into the chest piece, but worked around it.
“A rose,” I whisper, letting my fingers trace the older tattoo on his left pectoral, right above his heart. This is the tattoo I caught a glimpse of when he was home that summer. Clay flattens my hand out on his chest, his thumb stroking along the tops of my fingers.
“Look closer.” His voice is so soft and tired that I wonder if I’m hearing things, but when I shift my hand, I can see the whole rose. I realize that there, in the center, one line of the smallest petal isn’t actually a line, but…my name.
A tear finds its way down my cheek as I reach to kiss the spot where I’m forever etched into his skin. His Eleanor Rose.
Chapter 21
I trust You
Leni
I pull away from him,enough to look up at his face. There’s warmth in his eyes, but he’s still standing in front of me, looking lost. Stuck in a past he doesn’t think he deserves to leave behind.
“Come on.” I pop the button on his Wranglers and slip my thumbs into the sides. “The water’s hot now.”
“I got it.” He pulls my hands away and steps back from me, shucking his jeans and boxers off in one go before stepping into the shower. If he thinks I’m going to let him disappear, he’s got another thing coming.
Stripping out of my clothes, I step into the shower behind him. His back is to me when I get in, but I can see the jerky motions as he washes his hands. Scrubbing them, like he’s trying to scrub away years of dirt and grime.
“Let me help you,” I whisper.
Let me in. I want to scream.
Instead, I grab his shoulder and turn him around toward me, pushing him back under the spray as I take the soap from his hands. I start to knead it, gently scrubbing every crack andgroove, soothing my fingers over his calluses. His head drops, water beating against the back of his neck as his chest rises and falls in long, heavy breaths.
When his hands are clean, I travel up his wrists, soaping his arms, then his shoulders, and down his chest. He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel him watching me. The weight of his gaze makes my skin itch. I’m washing every square inch of his body, and somehow, I’m the one who feels exposed.
I drop to my knees in front of him, lathering the soap up his legs. My hands shake as they go. The silence feels like a weighted blanket, one that’s filled with yearning and tension and all the words we haven’t said. I glance up at him through my lashes, and the look on his face steals my breath away.
There’s a fire in his eyes, lust and longing etched into every taut line of his face. His chest is heaving with every breath, and still, he doesn’t speak to me. It would be so easy to reach forward and take his cock in my hand, to stroke his rock-hard erection that’s practically reaching for me. The things I would do to that dick with my mouth, I don’t think I’d even be able to take him fully, not in my mouth at least.
This isn’t about sex, though; this is about making sure Clay knows he’s not alone. That he is not the product of his circumstances, and I am here for him.
I stand, nudging him back under the spray so he can rinse the soap off. Turning to the side, I grab his shampoo and squeeze a bit into my palms. He leans forward, letting the water beat down on his shoulders. I sink my fingers deep into his hair and begin to massage his scalp, making sure I don’t miss a single curl.
A guttural moan comes from him, so I take that as a sign to keep going. I scrub until my fingers ache, and I worry he’s going to get a crick in his neck from leaning forward for so long. “You can rinse,” I say, my voice coming out a bit hoarse.
My hands drop, and I suddenly feel awkward without something to do with them. He can either read the awkwardness I’m feeling, or he doesn’t want me to stop touching him because he grabs my hands and puts them on either side of his ribs, before tossing his head back to rinse out his hair. I move closer, resting my head on his chest as my arms snake around him.
Clay moves a leg around mine, pivoting us so that I’m the one under the water now. Leaving my arms around his waist, he tips my head back before he runs his fingers through my waves, separating the layers to get them wet.
He pauses for a second, looking at the hair products I have lined up along the shelf. “The pink one,” I say, still not wanting to let go of him. He squeezes a generous portion into his palm before lathering it between his hands. His fingers begin to rub the shampoo in, returning the scalp massage tenfold. My eyes flutter closed as I lean into his strong hands.God,this feels so damn good.
“Which one’s next?” Clay’s voice startles me a little. It’s the first time he’s spoken since we stepped into the shower, and I don’t expect all the gravel it’s laced with.
“Blue bottle.” I point at the smaller bottle of conditioner on the shelf. “It only goes on the ends.”
“Copy.” He gives me a small smile that heats my core, fire lancing through my bloodstream.Yeah, he’s going to be the death of me.Once he’s done working the conditioner into my hair, he washes my body. When he gets to his knees to soap my legs, I nearly fall to the floor with him. His hands steady at my hips, a knowing smirk tilting the corners of his mouth. While he’s washing my legs, he peppers my abdomen with kisses. They’re soft and sweet, with no bite or urgency to them. It’s almost lazy, the way he gently presses his lips to my skin.
After a slow, torturous cleaning between my legs andbackside, Clay stands and nudges my head back under the water to rinse my hair out. The water is significantly cooler than when we started, but I am once again impressed that my little water heater lasted this long. Clay reaches behind me to turn the water off, then steps out of the shower to grab us a towel.
