Page 266 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
“But not yet.”
He squirts conditioner into my hair, never once letting me go. He works it through my damp strands with careful precision, gently massaging it into my scalp. The sensation is soothing. I close my eyes for a moment, enjoying the simple, calming feeling of his hands working through my hair.
Once he finishes, he tips my head under the water.
How am I ever going to take a shower by myself again?
When he lets me go, I stumble. My legs are so damn weak—weak for him. My hands grip his forearms, and his arm is still around me.
“Easy there.” There’s a hint of amusement in his voice. “Although I have to admit, I do love seeing you fall apart like this. In my arms. And me being the cause.”
So do I. More than I’d ever expected.
“I want to tell you I’m not falling apart.” The sassy part of me lifts my chin at him.
He smirks. “You do?”
“Yeah, and that you’re not the cause if I am.” I stabilize my feet.
His smirk widens. “Oh, really? You want to tell me that?”
“I do.”
“Maybe I’ll have to work harder.” His promise excites me, but then he releases me.
I’ve never craved anything like I crave his touch right now. When he comes back, he’s holding a bar of soap.
“How steady are you feeling?” He plays with that soap between his fingers, and my jealousy is immeasurable.
“Very steady.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Neither do I.
His hand grips my throat, and he presses my back flat against a wall.
Shit.
Fuck.
Take me right here.
And don’t you dare let go of my throat.
“That should hold you,” he says.
The wood is smooth against my flesh, and when he removes my hand, damned if I want to drag it back and tell him to choke me harder.
The lather forms in his hands, thick and white, as he rubs the soap between his palms.
I stand here, captivated.
My body leans into the wall for support as I watch his arms flex with each motion. The muscles shift beneath his skin.
Slowly, he brings his hands to his chest. The soapy suds glide over his shoulders and down the smooth lines of his torso. His skin gleams under the water, beads of it tracing down and catching the light.
He works the soap over his arms, his fingers moving in rough, circular motions. I watch, spellbound as the lather sculpts the lines of his back. Then his fingers run over his neck, along his spine, and then lower, across his waist. His hand slides down, dipping low, and the water follows the path, sweeping over his body, washing away the suds, revealing smooth, glistening skin.
