Page 251 of Love Me Stalk Me
And then? I wash her.
Gently. Thoroughly. Completely.
I let my hands trail over her skin, washing away every reminder of what happened today, letting my fingers massage over her muscles, soothe her, until her breathing slows, until her body relaxes, until she's looking up at me like I'm the only anchor keeping her grounded.
And I am.
By the time we get out, she's soft, warm, loose-limbed. Water droplets cling to her eyelashes, her fuller curves glistening under the bathroom lights.
She lets me towel her off, lets me dress her in one of my shirts, lets me pull her into the kitchen and sit her on the counter while I cook her dinner. The sizzle of garlic and onions fills the air as I move around her kitchen, the knife rhythmically chopping through vegetables. She watches me, knees drawn up to her chest, the hem of my shirt barely covering her thighs.
I plate the pasta—simple but filling—and carry her to the bedroom. She doesn't even argue when I put on Bridgerton. Just leans into me, stealing bites of food off my plate, snuggling close as we watch, the silk sheets cool beneath us. Because before anything else? Before I fucking wreck her like I've been dying to do for weeks?
Sheneeds to relax.
She needs to be okay.
And then?
Then she's mine.
She stays quiet, sipping her tea, watching the last few scenes of season two unfold on the TV mounted on her bedroom wall.
Finally, she looks at me. Like it’s costing her everything to hold back. Chest rising too fast, lips trembling with something unsaid. “Please?”
It's one word.
One tiny fucking word.
But it’s everything to me.
Instantly, I'm hard. I set my glass down and turn to her, my hand cupping her face, angling her up to me.
"Say it again," I murmur.
Her breath catches. Her thighs press together, the fabric of my shirt rustling. "Please," she breathes.
Fuck.
I lose it.
I grab her, caging her beneath me, rolling us so she's pinned, exactly where she belongs. My fingers trace her face, my thumb skimming her lips, my other hand bracing against the mattress beside her head. The bed dips beneath our weight, the sheets tangling around her bare legs.
"This," I whisper, my voice edged with pure fucking hunger. "This is what I've been waiting for."
Her hair fans across the pillow, breath catching, mouth parted in anticipation.
She watches me with those dark, hungry eyes, her body soft and yielding beneath mine. I take my time. I drag my fingers over her skin, tracing the delicate lines of her collarbone, the dip between her breasts, the curve of her hip. Her skin is like silk beneath my calloused fingers.
She shivers.
Her breath hitches.
She's so fucking beautiful.
I dip down, brushing my nose along the column of her throat, inhaling her, soaking her in.
She smells like my soap. My shirt. Mine.
