Page 101 of Innocent Intentions

He freezes. His breath hitches.

“They were shaking.” I whisper. My voice cracks.

“I didn’t realize.” He speaks just as softly. Then firmer. “And sweetheart, you can always touch me. There doesn’t need to be a reason. I’m yours.”

I’m yours.

The words settle deep. He’s told me I’m his, but not that he’s mine. There’s something different about it. Something that stitches together a little of what was broken.

I nod and slowly pull my hands away.

He fills a cup and wets my hair carefully, like I’ll shatter under his touch. He pours my shampoo into his palms and massages it into my scalp for a few minutes. It’s calming and relaxing. After a few minutes, he rinses it out in slow strokes.

Then he reaches for the conditioner, ready to smooth it over my scalp.

“Just on the ends,” I correct softly.

His brows furrow. “Why?”

“Conditioner doesn’t go on your scalp.” I explain. “It’ll make your hair greasy.”

He nods and adjusts. He runs his fingers through my ends, working through the knots well after they’re gone. He keeps going, over and over, like he’s soothing himself just as much as me.

I let him.

Then he lathers a loofah with soap and starts washing me, light strokes over my arms. Too soft. Too gentle.

“Harder, please,” I whisper, voice thin.

His hands still. I look into his eyes, and he understands.

He scrubs harder, making sure to cover every inch of me. With every swipe of the loofah, every pass over my skin, it feels like some of the horror washes away. Not all of it. Not what lingers inside. But enough.

When he rinses the soap off, I can breathe again.

And when he’s done, I finally feel clean.

Chapter 39

Margot

After soaking in the bath, Matty brings me some sweats, as well as a pair of his boxer briefs and a pair of my panties to choose from.

I choose the boxers.

Because I need his comfort. Because I need the familiarity. Because I need to follow his ridiculous rules.

Because I need him.

He doesn’t say anything about it. Doesn’t read into it.

None of it has been sexual. Even with his hands on me, washing me, dressing me, there was no sexual current. But it was intimate.

And that’s what I needed. Comfort. Tenderness. Not passion, not heat. Just him taking care of me.

I lie on top of him in our bed. He’s stroking my back, calmingly. Every so often, he presses a kiss to my hair. Nothing rushed. Nothing forced. Just Matty, grounding me, holding me together when I feel like I could still break apart.

I don’t know where I’d be if it weren’t for him.

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