Page 11 of A Guardian for Christmas

The glass door opens and more steam pours from the intricately tiled shower stall. Sagan then takes my free hand in his, my other hand still perched on his shoulder.

This is what I agreed to.

I step in, and I let the hot water run over me.

My hand does not want to let go of that ham-hock shoulder.

Sagan does not seem bothered or frustrated with me despite my helplessness. He is a revelation.

I let my hand drop, give him an apologetic expression, and then turn away, leaning my forehead against the tile.

I wait for the sound of the shower door closing, but it doesn’t come.

Turning my head slightly, I see out of the corner of my eye Sagan unbuttoning his shirt.

I should probably start screaming at this point. When will I start screaming about this man in my bathroom, peeling off hisflannel, tugging off the T-shirt underneath, and tossing it into the pile in the corner?

But I don’t scream. Instead, I’m transfixed as he unzips his jeans next.

Holding my breath, I turn away and notice the sound of the metal belt buckle loosening and then hitting the floor.

The shower door only closes when Sagan steps into the shower with me.

That leathery scent surrounds me, even in the steam filling my lungs.

Sagan stands behind me, and the next thing I know, his hands are swishing water through my hair, stroking me from my forehead, back to the crown, down to the ends of my locks, thoroughly wetting it.

I lean back and let those thick, strong fingers that gave me my first tattoo massage my scalp.

He mutters something about the bottles, reading labels. “This will do.”

A plastic top pops open. He squirts a dollop into his palm and then closes the top again. I close my eyes. I’m pretty sure this is a dream, or nightmare.

Sagan is surprisingly adept at this. He gently works the shampoo through my hair, rubbing it into my scalp and working it down to the ends.

The slickness of the conditioner puts inappropriate thoughts into my head.

I’ve let my guard down, and now I’m thinking about his abs, and other things I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about while I’m not functioning at a hundred percent.

What if I just turned around and felt him skin-to-skin? I suspect those slick hands would know exactly what to do with me.

And I would let him have his way with me completely.

Sagan wraps his fist around my hair, wringing it out.

The gentle pull makes my scalp tingle. He’s waking up more than my mind.

I turn and peek at him over my shoulder.

I briefly glimpse a rigid, tanned trapezius muscle before he says, “Face forward.”

I do as he says, mostly because I’m now 90% sure this isn’t sexual. At least not for him. I haven’t showered in days. Hell, I can’t even remember if I brushed my teeth last night or even yesterday morning. No, he’s doing this out of the kindness of his heart. Sure, it might be the weirdest thing a friend has ever done for me. But I am unwilling to call him out on that.

“Can you wash yourself?”

The deep voice rumbles close to my ear, making my brain buffer.

When I take too long to answer, Sagan grabs the soap.

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