Page 136 of How to Prevent a Fumble

Briar watches me curiously as I scoop her up in my arms once more, and when we’re back in the bathroom, I set her down.

Her shoulders slump and she’s a bit wobbly, but she’s standing. Looking her over, I lightly tug at the hem of her shirt.

Her eyes find mine, wide and curious. “May I?” I ask quietly.

She gives me a faint nod.

Slipping her cardigan off her shoulders, I toss it across the room before lifting her shirt to reveal a simple light blue bra.

But I never once take my eyes off hers, and her curiosity only deepens.

I unbutton her jeans, continuing to watch her eyes studyme as I pull them down. When she steps out of them, now only in her underwear, she doesn’t shy away from me.

Instead, she looks up at me expectantly.

I continue to watch her as my hand snakes behind her, her skin scorching my fingers as they find their way to the hooks of her bra. Fumbling, I finally get it undone, and the straps fall down her shoulders.

She doesn’t move to slip it off.

Worrying my lip, I gently bring my fingers to the delicate straps, pulling them down to expose her beautiful chest.

But I try my hardest not to look. Instead, I keep my eyes glued to her face, even as my fingers gently make their way down to her hips, twisting in her underwear and pulling them down, too.

She steps out of them.

Standing in front of me naked, I can confidently say that even without studying every part of her, even without taking my eyes off of her beautiful face, I know with certainty that she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life.

Scooping her up again, she brings her arms around my neck as I set her carefully in the water.

Her eyes shut as her body disappears beneath the bubbles, and I swear I hear her moan.

Fuck.

“Thank you,” she whispers, looking down.

“Always,” I tell her.

Settling behind her, because I’m not done just yet, I grab her book and hand it to her. She takes it without hesitation, opening to whatever page she was on as I get to work massaging her shoulders.

We don’t say a single word for what feels like an hour.

Not until she asks me to grab her phone and put on some music.

“What kind of music do you want?” I ask.

She shrugs, water sluicing over the side of the tub. “I don’t know. Just click on my favorites playlist and hit shuffle.”

The playlist starts off tame. The typical nineties boyband hits, plus some eighties hairband mixed in.

It’s not until about fifteen minutes in, when some early two thousands boyband is immediately followed by Nickleback, that I have some questions. “Interesting playlist you have here,” I mutter.

Her shoulders shake as she chuckles, her book dipping into the bubbles just enough to get a corner of the pages damp.

“You don’t like them?”

“I had to listen to them all the time because of Isla. I swear she’s like some kind of sick superfan. I get being a fan of someone like Beyonce, or even a boyband like One Direction. I just can’t wrap my head around being a huge fan of Nickleback of all bands.”

Briar gasps. “I can’t believe you just said that,” she feigns hurt.

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