Page 76 of My Secret Santa Clayton

“Much better,” I agreed. A small sigh escaped me as I took a step forward.

“Sit down,” Clay instructed, guiding me towards the couch.

I obeyed without argument, sinking into the cushions. The fabric was soft under my hands, and for a moment, I simply closed my eyes. I listened as Clay got a fire started, as Bear hopped up on the couch with me, as Clay walked down the hall and turned on a faucet.

I fell asleep again.

I didn’t know how long I drifted off for, but then Clay was back—gently waking me, taking my arm and helping me to my feet. It was so warm in the cabin that I could have collapsed and slept for days—but as we rounded the corner to the bathroom, I realized he’d run me a bath. Good; I was still dirty. I really,reallyneeded to wash off this day.

The bathroom smelled like men’s body wash, clean and crisp, and candlelight flickered against the walls, throwing shadows that danced softly in the small space. Clay guided me inside, and then he started to undress me—nothing sexual, just the deepest love I’d ever felt. I stood still, letting Clay's hands work the buttons of my shirt.

“Arms up,” he said, and I obliged, lifting them just enough for him to ease the fabric off my shoulders. He was gentle as he worked. The shirt fell to the floor with a whisper.

His fingers brushed against my skin, unintentional yet tender, as he reached for the waist of my jeans. They slipped down my legs without resistance, pooling at my feet. I stepped out of them, one foot after another, my gaze fixed on the water in the clawfoot tub.

“Easy,” he murmured when I almost stumbled. His hand was steady on my elbow, guiding me forward. I didn't look at him, couldn't face the concern I knew lingered in those piercing blue eyes of his.

Instead, I focused on the steam rising from the surface of the water, the heat beckoning me closer.

The edge of the tub was cool against my skin as I perched on it, ready to step in. Clay paused, giving me a moment to adjust. I took a deep breath and slid into the water, a sigh escaping me unbidden as the warmth enveloped me.

“Lean back,” he instructed, his voice low. That voice…if I was in any other state, his commands would have turned me on. As it was, all I could do was obey. I rested against the porcelain,feeling the water lap at my bruised skin. He watched me for a moment, ensuring I was settled.

I released another long sigh as I settled further into the bath, the heat wrapping around me. Muscles that had been tight with agony began to loosen.

“You okay?”

“Better than okay,” I replied.

I listened as he moved around, though I didn’t know what he was doing. I found out when he gently moved me forward—then his big frame moved into the space behind me, settling me against his broad chest. His legs cradled me, kept me safe.

I rested against his shoulder, shocked at how I was able to get turned on even now.

“Clay…”

“Shh,” he murmured, a mere breath of sound. “Relax, Grace.”

Clay's hand found a washcloth, and he dipped it into the water. He wrung it out carefully before placing it against my arm. The fabric felt soft, almost tender, as he began to glide it over my skin.

“I’ve got you,” he said. His voice was a low rumble, and his breath warmed the top of my head. He moved the cloth over my arms and shoulders, each stroke washing away layers of grime and blood. I’d had to get stitches in just one of the cuts on my arm, but otherwise it was all just bruising and scrapes.

Everything hurt, but not enough that this didn’t feel good.

“Thanks,” I managed to say.

Clay’s hands were slow, deliberate. They never lingered too long on any one spot, never pressed too hard. It was as if he feared I might shatter under too much pressure.

“You're not going to hurt me,” I told him.

“I know,” Clay replied. “Just being careful.”

The attention he gave to cleansing my wounds was thorough, gentle. It wasn't just about physical care; there was something more in his touch, something that reached beyond the surface.

He was healing me.

Clay reached for the shampoo bottle next to the tub. He poured some into his hand, and then his fingers worked through my hair, lathering it up. The scent of peppermint hit me, clean and soothing. It filled the room, replacing the acrid smell of fear that had clung to me for too long.

“Lean back,” he said, and I did, resting against him. His chest was solid behind me, an unwavering presence. He massaged my scalp, and I closed my eyes, allowing the motion to calm my frayed nerves.

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