Page 22 of Twisted Trails
His words tumble out fast and clumsily, his accent even more pronounced than usual, and my heart aches because he’s still here.
Even after all the lies and secrets.
And I can’t listen to one more word of his sweet, over-apologetic rambling, so I reach out and press a finger to his lips, making him freeze.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’dlovefor you to help me, Luc.”
He smiles against my fingertip, then grabs my wrist, pulling my hand away from his mouth and kissing me softly before sighing, a brush of lips and breath.
“Nothing I’d rather do,ma Petite,” Luc murmurs as he lets go of me and steps into the shower first.
He doesn’t look back to see if I’m watching, but I am.
I watch every second of it when he turns the water on and adjusts the temperature with casual confidence. When he stands under the spray, the water hits his skin and drenches his hair before running down his chest in lazy trails, clinging to every ridge and dip of muscle.
He steps out of the spray and smiles as he holds out his hand to me, the gesture landing somewhere in the center of my chest.
“Come here.”
I swallow hard.
Shit.
This is going to be bad.
Even though he’s still here, he hasn’treallyseen me yet. Not the parts that don’t look like they belong tosomeone anyone wants. The scars, the too-muscular thighs that don’t curve the way girls’ legs are supposed to. The new scrapes from the crash are angry against skin that was already marred to begin with. I don’t look hot, I look like an aftermath, but I need this shower, and I need the help.
I needhim.
So, with my eyes closed, I let the towel fall to the floor.
For a second, there’s no sound but that of water hitting the shower floor, then I hear him suck in a sharp breath. I open my eyes, expecting flinching or maybe even disgust, but instead, his eyes are locked on my chest. His tongue flicks out to wet his bottom lip, and a twitch in his boxers pulls my gaze lower.
He’shard.
Even with all of me visible, every scar lit in perfect detail by the glow of the bathroom lights, he’s still hard.
His voice drops low, breathier now, as he repeats himself. “Come here,ma Petite.”
My body hums with something half-terrified and half-starved, as I place my good hand in his outstretched one, and his fingers curl around mine like it’s sacred.
“Goddamn,” he mutters, scanning me. “How the fuck did you manage to hide them?”
I laugh but cringe a little too. “It hurt, okay? It really hurt.”
He turns me gently so my back is to his front, and the water comes down on my stomach, perfectly warm.
Luc reaches for my injured arm and slides his palm slowly from my shoulder to my elbow. The touch is so tender that it makes my breath catch. Then, carefully, he bends my arm and lifts it, guiding my wrist to rest over his shoulder. Once he’s sure I’m steady, his hands find me again, gliding over my body with slow intent. The waterclings to my skin, and so do his hands, mapping me out with a reverence I don’t know how to receive.
I can feel his eyes on me as he reaches for the soap and lathers it slowly between his palms, the scent of lavender blooming between us. He pulls me back against him, chest to back, skin to skin, and I gasp.
He’s still hard.
But he doesn’t grind into me like he did when we were dancing. He sprawls his hands on my stomach, then starts to wash me from there outward. His fingers trace each rib, each curve, each scar as he kisses up my shoulder, sighing every so often.
When his fingers find the long scar near my breast, I shudder when I remember the ghost of another touch.
Finn’s, right on that same spot.
