Page 39 of The Games We Play
“You don’t get to decide what I do and don’t have to do. I decide that. And seeing you clearly can’t take care of yourself right now, I’ll do it. So I’m going to ask again. Will it mean a million steps?”
“A few. Leave-in conditioner, then wrapping it in a special towel or braiding it.”
Spark ponders for a moment and then tugs his T-shirt over his head.
I was feeling faint before, but the sight of his broad chest covered in ink makes my heart race. When he turns to grab the showerhead from the wall, I notice the giant Iron Outlaws logo tattooed on his back, surrounded by lots of other ink that is hard to discern in the candlelight. The muscles in his shoulders ripple, casting shadows over his skin.
Once he has the showerhead running to the temperature he wants, he helps me sit forward and lean my head back. As I do, I realize just how close he is to me. I shut my eyes and take in the scent of him again. He’s showered since he talked to me outside the school.
Everything in me feels taut as the spray hits the crown of my head and sluices down my back. Occasionally, Spark places his hand at my hairline to stop the spray from hitting my face.
He turns off the shower and reaches for the shampoo. My stylist always gives me a little head massage when I go for a trim, but when Spark’s strong fingers rub the shampoo into my scalp, I groan in pleasure.
“Careful, little chick. That sound gets my dick excited.”
I tighten my lips inward and bite down on them.
With strong strokes, he smooths the shampoo through my hair until it’s properly soaped and then rinses my hair again. The conditioner is cool when he runs it through my hair, and when he’s finished rinsing it, he scoops it up and twirls it around before leaving it in a wet pile on top of my head.
“Thank you,” I say, but Spark sits on the edge of the tub.
“I’m only just getting started. I’m going to wash you with my hands. And you’re going to be a good girl and let me.”
13
SPARK
It’s a really fucking bad idea to be here.
I’m disobeying a direct order from my president, and I’m a man who prides himself on knowing how to give and take orders.
I’m also deliberately, and some might argue stupidly, putting myself in harm’s way. Not that I’m expecting Ó Ceallaigh to swing by at two in the morning. But if he did, the sight of me with my hands on Iris in the tub would be enough to end me. He wouldn’t ask questions first.
And it might backfire on my little chick, sitting there, all flushed and wet, looking up at me as her trust in us grows. Iris got caught in the crossfire twice now. I don’t know why that guy came at her, but the fact he had a hidden getaway says it was no accident. And I don’t intend for that to happen to her again. But it’s bound to, if I stick around.
I don’t know why I feel like it’s connected to the Righteous Brotherhood we’ve been keeping a watch on. Maybe they’ve been keeping a watch on me. My cut tells them exactly who I am because we aren’t cowards. We don’t hide. Perhaps I’ve gotten sloppy. Or perhaps I’m connecting dots that aren’t meant to join.
But allowing myself this. Allowing myself this one night to know what it would feel like to have the responsibility for her body and her care.
Fuck.
That’s trippy enough to override any guy’s senses.
Acid has burned through my veins since I saw that truck hit her car. The sounds of it put me back in a place I didn’t want to be. My body feels like it ran a marathon. But here, in the quiet candlelight with the scent of shampoo and Iris, something happens to me. It’s like I finally disconnect from the electrical socket.
Everything slows.
All the tension ebbs from me.
I dip my palms into the warm water by her side, letting my fingers trail her slick skin. She’s soft to my hard, short to my tall, sweet to my sour. And she’s firmly under my skin. Her bodywash is all flowery scents as I rub a pump of it between my hands.
Then I start with her shoulders.
“You’re really tense,” I say as I knead the knots in her shoulders.
Iris drops her head, giving me more room. I massage farther down her back. Her hand, propped on the side of the tub, slides onto my lap. It’s inches from my rock-hard dick, which I’m making no efforts to hide. If I sat forward just a fraction, her knuckles would skim my length, and my dick throbs at the thought of it.
I take a deep breath and nudge her back.
