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I stand frozen, watching as he prepares the bath with a level of care that feels out of place for someone like him. Like an elephant crafting fine china, or a wrecking ball painting a canvas.
Without a word, he turns to me, his hands reaching for the zipper of my jacket.
There’s nothing forceful in his movements this time—nothing aggressive. He’s slow, gentle, his fingers carefully peeling the riding suit away from my bruised skin. Mal’s touch isn’t about control now.
It’s about care.
His eyes move over my body as he peels the rest of my clothes away—my shirt, my yoga pants, my bra and panties, until I’m standing naked in front of him. His look right now isn’t one oflust. It’s something far deeper that makes my heart race for a different reason.
“Sit,” he commands gently, guiding me to the edge of the tub.
I sit, my heart pounding in my chest as Mal tends to my wounds, his fingers brushing over the cuts and bruises with a tenderness I would never have thought him capable of. He re-dresses some of them with waterproof bandages and wraps the worst of the burns on my hands and shoulder with tape to keep them dry.
Every touch sends a shiver through me, and by the time he lifts me into the bath, I’m completely undone.
My face heats as I turn and watch him undress with unhurried movements, stripping naked before he climbs in after me. He sits behind me, pulling me against him.
The warm water swirls around me as Mal holds me close, his strong arms wrapped securely around my body. For a moment, I close my eyes, letting the warmth seep into my bones, letting the exhaustion from the day drop away. His chest presses against my back, steady and firm, a quiet strength.
It’s strange, being like this with him. I’m used to Mal being aggressive, dangerous; the one taking control of every situation. Right now, he’s almost gentle. His hands move carefully, his touch soft as he runs his fingers through my hair, wetting it with the warm water.
“Tip your head back,” he murmurs, his voice low.
I do as he says, reclining against him as he begins to massage shampoo into my scalp. His touch is careful, soothing, and for the first time in forever, I allow myself to relax completely. Thetension I’ve been holding in my shoulders, in my chest—it all melts away under his fingers, and I feel like finally I can breathe.
Mal’s hands work through my hair, massaging the shampoo into a lather, his fingers moving with slow, deliberate care. The sensation is both comforting and oddly intimate, but not in the way I expected. It’s not about desire—it’s about trust. And I realize, as he rinses the shampoo away with warm water, that I do trust him.
Implicitly.
He may be dangerous, with more darkness in him than I can comprehend. But in this moment, he’s not a monster.
When he’s done with the shampoo, he does the same routine with the conditioner. After that, Mal reaches for the washcloth hanging by the side of the tub. He dips it into the warm water, then squeezes out the excess before gently running it over my skin, starting with my shoulders. The cloth is so soft against my bruised body, and his touch is so light and careful, it almost makes me want to cry.
He moves slowly, methodically, washing every inch of me with quiet attention. My arms, my back, skipping over any bruises, cuts or burns. I shiver when his hands slide to my front, washing my breasts, the cloth teasing over my nipples before he moves down to my stomach, then to my legs.
Then between them.
I bite back a soft gasp as the cloth gently rubs my thighs and grazes over my pussy, his fingers brushing against my skin as he works.
I watch him in silence. He’s not just washing away the dirt and the grime of the day, he’s washing away something much deeper: the walls I’ve built around myself, the fear, the uncertainty. It all seems to slip away under his hands.
Then, without speaking, Mal reaches for the razor on the side of the tub.
“Mal?” I whisper. I freeze for a moment, not sure what to expect.
He just shakes his head as he slips around me, until he’s sitting facing me in the tub.
“Sit back,” he commands, his voice its usual deep, rough growl, but edged with a softness now. I lean back against the edge of the deep tub, flushing as Mal lifts one of my legs out of the water. He lathers up rich cream on my legs.
Then he starts to shave me with the same tenderness. There’s nothing rushed in his actions. His focus is absolute, his touch completely steady as he glides the razor over my legs, wiping the blade clean after each stroke.
He does one leg, rinsing it off and setting it back into the water before he does the same with the other: more lathered cream, more soft, slow, focused strokes until my skin is glistening and smooth.
When he finishes with my legs, he looks up at me, his blue eyes sparking with a little fire.
I know what comes next.
“Sit,” he murmurs gruffly, nodding at the edge of the tub. Then his hands are there anyway, lifting me out of the sudsy water and setting me on the porcelain edge. He pushes my legs apart. More lathered cream.
