Page 35 of Tell Me Something True

She stood and reached for her thong wrapped around his hand, but he curled his fingers around it, not ready to give it up yet.

Not ready to admit to even himself how badly he needed to hold onto it.

He stepped into his shower, pulled the curtain closed, then pressed the hand with the thong along the tiled wall and hung his head under the hard spray, letting it wash over him. The water was hot, each drop hitting his sensitized skin like a pin prick. Steam filled the air. A minute passed. Then two. Then the shower curtain was pulled open.

And a naked Tabitha stepped in behind him.

He lifted his head, watching her as she shut the curtain, then reached around him for his shower pouf and gel. Water dotted her hair and face while she squirted the gel onto the pouf, then worked it into a lather.

Goosebumps covered her shoulders, chest and arms and he instinctively stepped forward as he reached for her, to turn her under the warmth of the water, but she stopped him in his tracks when she pressed the sudsy pouf against his chest.

And started washing him.

His heart thudded, but unlike a few minutes ago, it wasn’t racing erratically. It was slow. Steady.

His chest ached, but not painfully.

Sweetly.

She washed his chest, then his torso, rubbing in light circles across his abdomen. The nausea in his gut settled. She lifted his empty hand and washed his fingers, his palm, his knuckles, then skimmed the pouf up to his shoulder before gently lifting his arm so she could wash his armpit and down his side.

Then she ran it across his collarbone to repeat the entire process on his other arm and side, avoiding her thong, now soaking wet and still clutched in his hand.

And he stood there and let her.

He let her because with each swipe of the pouf, his earlier fear eased, his anxiety faded slowly, bit by bit.

He let her because her touch soothed him in a way that no amount of deep breathing, thought labeling or mental counting or list-making ever had.

She knelt before him once again, the spray hitting her face, and washed the front of his right leg—thigh and knee and shin—before dragging the pouf up his inner thigh then across his lower abs to his left leg to repeat the process.

He couldn’t have moved if he’d wanted to. He was too stunned. Too overcome by her kindness.

Too desperate for more of her touch. Her care.

She stood and gently pushed on his shoulder until he turned, facing the spray, so she could wash his shoulders and back, the backs of his thighs and calves. When she was done, she rinsed the pouf out under the spray then hung it back up. Turned him again.

“Lean your head down,” she told him as she squirted a dollop of his shampoo into her palm.

He bent forward and she reached up, running her fingers through his hair several times before lightly scrubbing. He groaned low in his throat as she massaged his scalp, easing the pain in his head until it was little more than a dull ache. Their gazes locked as she washed his hair, her breasts lifted and swaying slightly, her nipples two hard points. Her wet skin shiny, the damp hair at her temples curly, her eye makeup smudged.

He wanted to tell her she was beautiful. He wanted to confess that he’d lied when he told her he never thought about her. He wanted to ask her why she’d left all those years ago. What he’d done wrong.

He wanted to be the type of man who could forgive her.

If only so he really could let her go.

But his words would expose too much of himself. His wants made him vulnerable.

And she was already seeing him at his weakest. His most pathetic.

She already held way too much power over him.

So he kept his words locked away deep inside him.

And kept right on lying to himself. That he was happy with his life. That he liked being alone.

That he was fine.

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