Page 9 of Chains and Vows

It's true. Even if she never said it, it would still be true.

She trails her fingers down my chest, over the scar where my brand used to be, and smiles with those blue eyes that have always seen right through me. "Want to take a shower and fuck me properly this time?"

A laugh bubbles up outta me, surprise shootin' through the heaviness of the moment. "And what exactly is 'properly,' Savannah Rose? Didn't realize there was a wrong way we'd been doin' it."

She presses closer, her lips against my ear. "It means you take me into that shower, wash every inch of my body, shampoo my hair with those rough hands of yours. Then you lift me up against the tile, and I wrap my legs around you while you slide your cock inside me." Her voice drops even lower. "No rush. No desperation. Just you and me, connected, with hot water pourin' over us."

The way she says it—direct, no bullshit—sends blood rushin' south again. Christ, this woman. She's gonna be the death of me. The most beautiful death a man could ask for.

I move fast, grabbin' her wrist and pullin' her up off the bed with enough force to yank a little yelp outta her that turns into a giggle. In one motion, I bend and hoist her over my shoulder, her naked ass in the air, her hair hangin' down my back.

"Legion!" she squeals, half-laughin', half-protestin' as I carry her into the bathroom.

I set her down on her feet next to the ridiculous glass enclosure that could fit five people. Then I reach in, turn the handle, and steam starts fillin' the space immediately.

I watch her leanin' against the counter, a smile playin' at the corners of her mouth, her eyes never leavin' mine. Even with her hair a mess and my come still tracin' patterns on her skin, she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

I hold out my hand to her, palm up. An invitation. A question.

"C'mere," I tell her, and she slips her fingers into mine.

We step under the spray together, and the hot water sluices over us, washin' away the evidence of what we just did.

But not the memory of it. Not the feelin' of it.

I pull her against me, skin to skin, and kiss her deep and slow under the fallin' water.

We break the kiss, breathin' hard against each other's mouths. The water's still hot, steam risin' around us like ghosts.

Savannah reaches past me, grabs somethin' soft and yellow off the fancy little hook on the wall. "Here," she says, pressin' it into my palm.

A loofah.

She guides my hand toward a glass bottle on the shelf. Some expensive shit with a French name I can't pronounce. I squeeze a dollop onto the sponge, and it foams up immediately, fillin' my nose with the scent of flowers.

"Now wash me," she whispers, eyes holdin' mine steady. "Everywhere."

My hand shakes a little as I press the loofah to her collarbone, drag it slow across her skin. The soap makes her slick, glistenin' under the shower spray. I take my time with her shoulders, the hollow of her throat, the curve where her neck meets her jaw. Then I work my way down her arms, across her back, circlin' lower to the dimples above her ass.

Every inch of her gets the same careful attention, like I'm catalogin' her body with my hands. Memorizin' her.

While I'm washin' her, she starts on me, too. No loofa for her. Just her bare hands smoothin' the same soap across my chest, my shoulders, down my stomach. Those perfect fingers tracin' the outline of every tattoo, every scar, every story written in the language of my skin.

When her soapy hands find my cock, I damn near stop breathin'. She strokes me with slow, deliberate movements, her palm twistin' on the upstroke in a way that makes my knees weak. No rush to it, no goal besides the feelin' itself. Just her hands learnin' me, claimin' me. I'm hard again in seconds, achin' for her.

"Christ, Savannah," I groan, lettin' my head fall back as she keeps up her massage. "You're gonna kill me."

She laughs, all satisfied and knowin', like she's got all my secrets in her hands. And fuck, maybe she does.

I reach around her, set the loofa down, pull her close so our bodies slide together in the soap and water. The way we fit—her curves against my angles, soft against hard—it's perfect in a way I never deserved.

"Turn around," I tell her.

She does, presentin' the elegant line of her back to me. I grab the shampoo, pour some into my palms, and work it into her long hair. The strands slide through my fingers like silk, nothin' like the coarse shit on my own head. I massage her scalp, and she makes this little sound in the back of her throat that goes straight to my dick.

When she turns and reaches for my hair, I almost stop her. Almost tell her I can do it myself. But there's somethin' in her eyes that won't let me. Somethin' that says she needs this as much as I do.

So I let her—the feel of her fingers workin' through my hair, scratchin' lightly at my scalp, it's the most intense sensation I've ever felt. Better than drugs. Better than the rush of a fight.