Page 60 of A Cowboy in the Streets

For some reason, that seemed to annoy him. “You won’t feel right until you’re clean.”

“I’ll be fine. Now let me—”

“I’ll do it. Come on, we’ll get you cleaned off in the shower and then you can soak in the tub until you’re ready for dinner.”

I gaped at him. “What?”

“I’ve already seen you naked. Hell, I’ve touched every part of you naked. I can wash your hair. Anyway, if you get in the tub now, you’re just going to be wallowing in your own filth.”

He had a point. Still, I hesitated. “Are you sure?”

His lips tilted in a wry smirk. “Buttercup, if I can survive cutting a bra off you, I can survive anything. Now let’s get you clean.”

I followed him into the bathroom, which was roughly the size of the bedroom. There were his-and-hers sinks, a toilet closet, a large shower, and—best of all—a deep soaking tub. I couldn’t hold back my gasp of delight.

His mouth quirked. “Yeah. My mom was a big fan of fancy bathrooms. And Dad was a fan of giving her everything she ever wanted.”

“It’s beautiful.” Both the bathroom and the sentiment behind it.

Adam toed off his boots and shucked his clothes with an unembarrassed efficiency that left me gaping at his naked body before I could gird myself. He squatted by my feet, his mouth inches from my pussy. I used his shoulders to keep my balance as he removed my boots and socks.

“This,” he said conversationally, “is so much worse than cutting off your bra.”

His breath tickled my belly, and I squeezed my eyes shut. “I’m injured,” I ground out.

“Baby, I know that. You could lie spread-eagle on the bed, begging me to take you, and I still wouldn’t fuck you.” He unclasped my jeans and wiggled them gently down my legs. “You’re too precious for me to risk hurting you like that.”

Goddammit, this man. What was he trying to do to me?

“I was reminding myself, not you,” I groused. “Because certain body parts keep forgetting. And you…Don’t say things like that to me. It makes everything too confusing.”

He didn’t say anything to that, just turned the faucet so water sprayed from the showerhead. He tested the temperature with his hand, made an adjustment, tested again, then nudged me through the glass door, stepping in behind me.

I tilted my head back, letting the water soak my hair.

“Turn around, baby.”

“Don’t call me that,” I said, even as I obeyed, giving him my back.

“As long as pain is twisting your mouth like that and you’re making those little whimpers, I’m calling you baby. You’re hurt,” he said quietly. “It feels inhuman to do anything else.”

My insides melted. Adam hid it well, but beneath all the grunts and scowls was a man who felt deeply. He was a caretaker at heart, no matter how hard he fought against it.

He squeezed a dollop of shampoo into his palm, rubbed his hands together, then got to work on my hair. Good lord, the man had magic hands. His fingertips kneaded my scalp with perfect pressure as he scrubbed away the sand and stress of the day.

“Okay,” I relented, barely biting back a moan as he gave my hair a gentle tug. “But not around other people.”

I turned around to rinse my hair and found him scowling. “What?”

“You’re covered in bruises.”

“Yeah,” I said drily. “I fell off a horse.”

“I don’t like it.”

I laughed and rolled my eyes. “Calm down, daddy. Falling off is a part of riding. You said it yourself. I’m not the first to get thrown, and I won’t be the last.”

He turned me around again to apply conditioner. When he tried to put me back under the water, I stopped him. “It needs to soak in a while first.”

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