Page 41 of Scout
I ease into the hot water slowly, muscles sighing under the heat. The tub’s huge, deep enough that I can sink low, let the warmth melt away every inch of lingering tension.
Except it doesn’t leave. Not really.
Not with Xavier watching me from the edge, still wrapped in his towel, still silent and intense and impossible to read.
He crouches down next to the tub, dips the washcloth into the water, and wrings it out with one hand. Then he brings it to my chest—slow, deliberate—and starts to wash me.
Not like I’m dirty.
Like I’m something worth tending to.
The cloth moves over my shoulder, across my collarbone, down my arm. Gentle. Focused. The way he touches me isn’t sexual—but it’sintimate. More vulnerable than anything we did outside.
My throat tightens.
“You don’t talk much, do you?” I ask, trying to lighten the weight in my chest.
Xavier’s mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. “I talk when it matters.”
He drops the cloth in the water and finally stands and drops his towel. His body is as unfairly gorgeous as ever, muscles defined, tan skin flushed from the heat of the room and whatever we’re doing here.
He climbs in behind me, water rising as his weight shifts. I sit between his legs, back to his chest, and he wraps his arms around my waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And maybe it is.
We sit there for a while, just breathing. The water laps at our skin. The steam makes everything soft and unreal.
His fingers move slowly across my stomach. Not urgent. Not demanding. Just...present.
“You ever do this?” he asks quietly.
“What—bathe with someone who could probably bench press me?”
He huffs a small laugh. “No. I mean... this.”
I turn my head slightly, enough to see him out of the corner of my eye. “You mean be touched like I’m not disposable?”
His jaw tightens. His arms pull me a little closer.
I don’t say anything else.
Because he already knows the answer.
“Do you trust me?” he murmurs, reaching behind him to grab something from the ledge—a small, discreet bottle I hadn’t noticed before. He pops the cap and slicks his fingers, quick but careful, the gesture practiced and thoughtful. “Water's not enough,” he adds, like he’s reading my mind.
The heat between us spikes.
He shifts slightly, murmuring, “Hold on,” as he slides his arms under mine. I lift my hips instinctively, bracing my hands on the edge of the tub, the cool porcelain grounding me as he slicks me with careful, steady fingers. I gasp—more from the intimacy than the touch.
Then he’s there, guiding himself to my entrance, and all coherent thought leaves me as he thrusts upward.
He rocks into me, chest pressed to my back, his breath ragged against my neck as he groans something low and desperate that I feel more than hear.
A cry escapes my lips as he fills me completely, stretching me in ways that make every nerve ending sing. It’s overwhelming; the heat of the water mixed with the intensity of our bodies colliding creates a blissful haze around us. I grip the edge of thetub tightly, trying to ground myself as waves of pleasure crash through me.
“God… you feel incredible,” Xavier groans, his voice thick with need as he thrusts again, deeper this time. Each movement sends shockwaves through my body; I can’t help but arch into him, seeking more.
“Xavier,” I gasp, losing myself in the rhythm we’re creating together. There’s no hesitation anymore; it’s just us, the water lapping around us and our bodies moving in sync like we’ve done this a thousand times before.
