By the time he opens the door, my ankles are crossed and I’m affecting the most nonchalant expression that I can. Maxx’s eyes slip right past Parrish to land on me, and I know he can tell. His jaw clenches, but he says nothing as he passes the pile of clothes over to his friend.
“Thank you,” Parrish tells him honestly, but with a slight strain in his voice that says that wasn’t easy for him. X gives a small wave and then retreats, allowing Parrish to shut the door behind him. “Get in the shower with me,” he says, and it’s not really a question.
He needs that.
I hop off the counter and he sets the clothing in my place, standing still and silent as I help unwrap the bandages from his chest, examining the wounds by hovering my fingers over them. Parrish snatches my hand in his and presses my palm against them, even as he shudders slightly with the pain of it.
“They’re not as bad as they look,” he tells me, but that isn’t true. He nearly bled to death. It’s just that someone—Mr. Volli, I guess—has been cleaning them and keeping antibiotic ointment liberally applied for the last few weeks. “They’ll heal—even if my ink is messed up.”
It’s true that the slices on his chest have obscured the beautiful art somewhat, but it isn’t less pretty for what it is now, it’s just beautiful in a different way.
“Let’s see how they heal up and then worry about them later. You never know; they may fade over time.” The first few tick marks are wider and more ragged looking; the new ones have tiny stitches that should help the scarring be less visible. Anyway, since Paul is a plastic surgeon, if they really bother Parrish, maybe his dad can help?
He takes the first aid kit, opens it up, and then pulls out a roll of what looks like plastic wrap.
“Here,” Parrish hands it over to me along with a spool of white tape. “I’m not supposed to get any of this wet.” He gestures at himself as my throat gets tight, and I nod, helping him to cover his wounds up and seal off the edges. “That should do it.”
Parrish nods and releases my hand, shoving his pants to the ground as I unlace and kick my shoes off before turning around and glancing over my shoulder.
“Zipper?” I query, and he steps forward, sliding the zipper down and then helping me shimmy out of the dress. Because of the corset-like fit of the top, I didn’t need a bra, leaving me immediately exposed. My panties, too, are already on the floor. Now, it’s just me, myself, and I, completely bare to him.
Parrish’s eyes flare with interest as he studies me, and then he reaches out for the shower door, opening it and waiting for me to climb in. I do and he follows quickly afterward, wrapping his arms around me from behind as the hot water cascades over both of us at the same time.
“Stay with me all night—even if we can’t have sex,” he whispers, but I have no idea how to make that work with Tess. I decide not to say anything to ruin that moment, closing my eyes and nodding as he kisses the side of my face.
We stay there for several minutes, the only sounds the pattering of the water and the combined exhales and inhales of our breathing. When Parrish releases me, I grab the bottle of orange Dial soap he has in there—for cleaning tattoos, most likely—and use that to lather up my palms.
“Want me to wash your back?” I ask and he nods, looking down at the nineteen perfect slices across his chest. They’re in two rows of eight with three ticks on the third and final row. Each one is about an inch in length, and the entire collection of them obscures nearly all of his chest. The plastic-like bandage stretches across the neatly stitched wounds, keeping them dry. It reminds me of the transparent bandages I’ve seen people wear over fresh tattoos.
Parrish turns around and I glide my soapy palms over him, enjoying the way he tenses and exhales, letting his head fall back in bliss. My fingers trail down to his firm ass, and he tosses a look back at me, not unlike the one from the very first day we met.
Apparently, I’m not the only who gets the reference.
“As if, Gamer Girl,” he says with a small smirk. “In your dreams.”
I throw my arms around him yet again, careful to keep my grip low so that I don’t disturb the wounds on his chest.
“I can’t believe how much I missed you,” I repeat for the fiftieth time. But it’s true. I did. We all did.
Parrish covers my hands with his, stroking my knuckles until I finally pull away. I finish washing his back and then switch out the soap for the shampoo, lathering his hair up, rinsing him off, and then adding conditioner.
