Page 71 of Third Strike Smitten

Fucking hell, I didn’t expect this.

“I…you’re…”

“I’m what, Killian? What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing is wrong with you,” I breathe. “You’re beautiful. Like…really fucking pretty and it just…I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have looked but I couldn't help myself.”

Her bra is black lace, delicate and barely there, the kind of thing that makes a man’s hands itch to touch. The matching black panties do nothing to smother the fire currently burning in my chest. I force my eyes away from her body, focusing instead on the tile wall behind her head, but the image of her in that black lace is already burned into my brain. The delicate curve of her collarbone, the way the fabric hugs her hips and breasts, the hint of freckles scattered across her chest like constellations I want to map with my tongue.

Isla’s cheeks flush pink beneath the swelling. “It’s just underwear, Killian.”

Just underwear, my ass.

It’s a fucking wet dream is what it is.

I clear my throat and, out of morbid curiosity, boldly ask her, “Did you wear this for me?”

She stares at me for a moment not answering, and somewhere, in that beautiful mind of hers, I’m pretty damn sure the answer to my question is an unequivocal yes. But she doesn’t admit it. Instead, she says, “I wear it to feel pretty.” She crosses her arms and allows her eyes to drop down my body. “And now that you’ve seen mine…it’s only fair, don’t you think?”

I raise a brow. “You want to see my cock?”

“No, I don’t want to see your cock.” She shakes her head. “Wait. I mean…it’s not that I don’t want…that’s not what I…I was talking about your underwear.” She gestures to the fact that I’m still in my gym shorts that I had on at the game. I quickly tug them down and let them fall to the ground, kicking them out of the way so I’m left standing before her in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs.

“This okay?” I’d gladly take them off and show her my whole body if she wanted me to, but I’m also a good dude. Consent is consent, and anyway, I’m not about to even consider using this evening as a way to get into Isla’s pants.

No matter how tempting she may be in black lace.

She nods. “Yeah. Okay. Let’s do this.”

“Okay.” I move a hand to the small of her back to help guide her under the water. “Ground rules. You keep your face covered the whole time. No exceptions. And you tell me if anything hurts, if you feel dizzy, if you want to stop. Anything. Yeah?”

“M-hmm.” She brings her hands to her face and steps back under the warm water.

I grab the shampoo from the shelf and pour some into my palm, trying to focus on the task at hand and not the way the water is making her black lace bra nearly transparent.

“Lean your head back,” I instruct, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m going to start with your hair.”

Isla tilts her head back, her hands covering her face as planned. The water cascades down her beautiful red hair, turning it dark as it becomes saturated. I work the shampoo onto her scalp, my fingers massaging in gentle circles. Her hair is softer than I expected, silky between my fingers, and I find myself taking my time, enjoying the simple intimacy of this moment.

I’ve never washed a woman’s hair before.

“You have really nice hands,” she whimpers, her voice slightly muffled by her palms. “For someone who throws baseballs for a living.”

I chuckle softly, the sound bouncing off the tile walls. “What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “They’re just...gentle. I wasn’t expecting that.”

Her words squeeze my heart. I rinse the shampoo from her hair, careful to keep the water away from her face. The soapy water runs down her neck, over her shoulders, disappearing between her breasts, and I swallow hard, forcing myself to focus on her hair and not the way the water makes the fabric cling to her skin.

“I’m sorry it’s not the strawberry stuff you’re used to.”

“How did you know I use strawberry shampoo?”

I feel myself smile even though she can’t see me, the awkward tension dissipating between us as I work my fingers through her hair. “Lucky guess.”

The steam is making it harder to breathe, or maybe that’s just the proximity of Isla’s nearly naked body. I’m hyper-aware of every inch of space between us, of the way her breasts rise and fall with each breath, and the way her skin glistens under the water.

“Okay, hair’s done. I’m going to wash your body now, is that okay?”