Page 70 of You Make Me Feel
“Christ, you’re perfect,” he mutters as he takes in my naked body.
“I’m a mess,” I say, but his words still warm me.
“No, you’re magnificent.” He swallows hard. “But you need to take a shower.”
“I’m not sure I can stand up long enough,” I say, suddenly aware of just how exhausted I am.
He nods, then pulls his t-shirt off. “I’ll hold you,” he says.
For a moment I forget how to breathe. His chest is broad and solid, all muscle and heat, the kind of strength that’s earned rather than sculpted.
A faint dusting of dark hair trails down his abs, tapering to the waistband of his jeans. There’s a small scar high on his left pec, pale against sun-warmed skin, and another just beneath his ribs.
And like me, he has scratches. Some from my nails, some from the woods. I reach out to touch one.
“Does it hurt?” I ask, tracing a pinkish red welt.
“Not a fucking bit.” His eyes are still on mine as he unbuckles his belt, taking his pants down, followed by his shorts.
“Come on,” he murmurs, offering his hand. “It’ll be warm by now.”
Steam curls around us as he leads me into the shower. The heat hits my skin first, then the water, washing awaythe leaves and dirt that still cling to me. I shiver, but his hand finds my waist, steadying me, grounding me.
“Easy,” he murmurs. His voice is softer, all the rough edges gone.
He reaches for the soap, lathering it between his palms until the scent of cedar and clean linen fills the air. Then his hands find my shoulders, sliding over my skin in slow, measured circles. His touch is gentle, deliberate, like I’m something precious.
The water runs over us, his fingers gliding down my arms, my back, over the curve of my hip. It hits me that it’s the first time he’s touched me like this. When I’m naked and exposed and we’re alone in a room.
And yet it feels like he already knows every line of my body.
He soaps my thighs and I let out a soft groan. There are bruises there, and he’s so gentle with them, yet I feel the fire light up in me again.
“Good girl,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to the side of my head. “You did so well tonight.”
The words make my chest tighten. I close my eyes and lean into him, letting his warmth sink into me.
He pours shampoo in his palm, then runs it through my hair, his fingers slow and careful along my scalp. His lips brush mine, like he can’t bear not to kiss me.
I tilt my face up and kiss him back, slow and searching. The kiss isn’t hungry the way it was before. It’s soft, almost sleepy, like we’re both rediscovering what quiet feels like. His hand slides to the back of my neck, holding me there, the water running over us as our lips move together.
When he finally pulls back, there’s a faint smile curving his mouth. “You’re tired,” he says.
“Not that tired,” I murmur. My voice is steadier now,and it surprises me. I feel the strength coming back to my limbs, like a flower blooming into life.
He rinses the shampoo from my hair, then slides conditioner through it, his fingers raking through my strands to deliver it evenly.
“You’ve done this before,” I say, not liking the way my stomach tightens at that thought.
“I have two younger sisters,” he murmurs. “I can wash hair like a pro.”
When it’s all rinsed out, I look up at him. God, he’s beautiful. Water drips from his lashes, tracing paths down his cheeks, over the curve of his jaw, along the column of his throat. His hair is soaked, making it darker with a slight curl at the edges. The light catches on his skin, on the faint pink marks I left across his shoulders, and something inside of me twists.
He tilts his head, noticing the way I’m staring. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say, though my voice wavers. “You’re… unfairly good-looking.”
He huffs out a laugh, low and warm. “Unfairly?”
