Page 104 of Prey for You

At some point when I hadn’t been crying for a while, Sam curled me up and lifted me to turn his body and get off the bed. I clung to him, suddenly terrified like a kid in the dark. But he just walked me to the bathroom and, with me still in his arms, rolled back the shower door and turned it on.

“It takes some time to heat up,” I mumbled into his neck.

“Good. I need to get my bag.”

I shouldn’t have tightened my grip—what was I, five? But it seemed like he didn’t want to let go either, because he just stood there for a minute until my grip eased.

“Go get it,” I said, lifting my head and wiping my eyes. “I’ll get in and…”

Without a word, Sam put me slowly down on my feet, but he didn’t let me go, just stood there staring down at me, worry lines creasing his forehead.

“I’m fine,” I half-laughed. He shook his head.

“No, you aren’t,” he said firmly. “But that’s okay. We’re going to get through it. I’ll be right back.”

When he stepped away my hands twitched. I almost pulled him back. But he was just going to get his bag! So I made myself stand there and watch him trot out of the room. When the shower started to steam, I stepped inside and right into the spray.

I stayed on my feet though, which felt like a win. I let the water drench my hair and wash down my body and I kept my eyes closed and remembered he was there and—and a moment later the air chilled on my wet body as the door rolled back again, then a tall, steel warmth came to stand right in front of me, his body pressed against mine.

I opened my eyes to see him watching me. I didn’t know what to say. So I just put a hand to his handsome, stubbled cheek and sighed.

He nodded, then looked past me to the little alcove in the wall that held soap and my travel shower stuff.

To my surprise he used a finger to push bottles aside like he was looking through them. Then he turned back to me, eyes intense, and lifted his hands to my face.

Except, not to my face.

I’d expected a kiss. But his fingers clawed from my temples, back into my hair, shaking it out under the water, his finger tips pressing slow circles into my scalp that feltdivine.Then, when my hair was saturated, he took my shampoo from the little alcove and poured a good dollop into his hand.

Rubbing his hands together, his expression stayed concerned as he started massaging it into my hair. His only words were soft instructions to tilt my head, or step forward or back out of the water.

Pretty soon he’d shampooed and conditioned my hair, massaged the nape of my neck several times in the process, and had me standing between his feet while he combed his fingers through my hair and out under the water to rinse it.

I was blushing. There was nothing sexual in what he did—no erotic touches, or wicked flashes in his eyes. Just…care.

He took the shower gel and soaped my neck and shoulders, then down my arms. When he reached my breasts I thought he might offer me heated look, but though he was gentle, there was nothing heated about his touch.

He soaped or rinsed every inch of my body, even kneeling in front of me to wash my feet, urging me to steady myself on his shoulders as he did first one foot, then the other.

He directed me to stay under the water while he quickly soaped himself down, then turned us both to rinse it off, holding me to keep me warm when I was out of the water’s flow.

Then he turned the shower off and led me out to the bathmat.

I wanted to say something. Wanted to reassert that I couldthink.But when he took one of the towels to dry me—carefully, meticulously—patting, rubbing every inch of my body until at the last he had me tip my head forward so my wet hair didn’t drip on my skin.

Then he twisted a towel around it and flipped it over for me, saying my name softly to urge me to lift my head.

His eyes locked on mine and he stroked my face, letting the tail of the towel drape down my back.

“Just one second, okay?” he murmured.

I nodded, then he stepped back, grabbed another towel and dried himself hurriedly, with not even half the attention he’d given me.

And before I could even feel cold, he was back, sliding his hands around my waist, pressing himself against me, walking me backwards.

He wasn’t hard. He wasn’t grinning. He was just… keeping himself close.

He lifted and turned me, sitting me down on the counter next to the sink, and I had a flashback to that first time he’d taken me home, after Ronald, when he’d cleaned my cuts and…

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