Page 87 of Trust

I obey.

The scent of shampoo rises. His fingers slide through my hair, lathering it and massaging my scalp in patient circles. The motions soothe my nerves. I close my eyes and let myself stay here in this moment with his touch, ignorant of what was yesterday and what will be tomorrow.

He rinses, then adds conditioner, applying the same care with unhurried fingers.

Once he’s finished, he turns me to face him again “That okay?” he asks softly.

I can’t find the words, so I simply nod.

He takes the body wash, rubbing it into creamy suds between his palms. He touches me with it, starting at my shoulders, then my arms. He works his way down, taking his time. Every movement is deliberate, every stroke an anchor.

His eyes stay locked on mine as he crouches down and glides both hands up and down my left leg, grazing places no one’s ever touched before.

Heat floods my cheeks, a stutter runs through my chest and my knees nearly buckle.

When he’s done with my other leg, he gets up, pours a measure of soap into my hands, and presses them against his chest. “Your turn.”

My hands tremble.

I spread the lather bit by bit, savoring the feel of hard muscle beneath my palms. I try to hold his gaze, but my eyes betray me, dropping again and again to his shoulders, his stomach, the cut of his hips. His breath shifts with every place I touch as I follow the routine he showed me.

Once the soap rinses away, calm is the last thing between us.

He leans in and kisses me hard, as though it could be the last time. My hands climb of their own accord, curling around his neck and tangling in his hair. I hunger for more. I hunger for him.

But he stops.

His mouth hovers over mine, every part of him strung tight. “I don’t want to stop,” he whispers. “So if you want me to... if you’re not sure... now’s the time.”

My pulse hammers, but my hands stay where they are. Then I pull him closer and kiss him again.

What he was holding back breaks loose. His hands catch my wrists, lifting them above my head and pinning them to the wall with one strong grip, and I let him. His free hand finds my face, holding me steady as he deepens the kiss. Water runs over us. Tremors dance across my skin at every point we touch. I’m aware of every hard inch of him, and I know exactly where this is heading.

And I want it.

I close my eyes and let the sensations consume me until one sudden, clear thought slices through the haze. My eyes fly open. Air catches in my chest.

He breaks the kiss and searches my face.

“I don’t want to get pregnant,” I say, barely audible.

His lips seek mine again, and between each kiss he murmurs, “You won’t. I got snipped years ago. There’s no danger.”

My lungs finally release a long exhale. Relief and want and trust pour together.

His hand moves again, more deliberate, as if he knows exactly where I need him and how. Strong, never rough. I press my forehead to his collarbone, almost ashamed of what I have to tell him next. “I don’t know how to do this,” I admit.

He pauses, then bends to kiss the center of my forehead. I catch the curve of his smile there. “I’ve got you,” he says. “Hold on.”

My hands drop onto his shoulders when he releases my wrists. He grabs my thighs and lifts me with ease, one leg on either side of his hips. He shuts off the water and carries me to the bedroom a few steps away, where my back sinks onto the mattress and he kneels between my thighs. His gaze moves slowly, taking in every detail. He told me I was beautiful before. Now he lets me live it.

When he covers my body with his, he’s careful not to crush me and braces his weight on his forearms, cradling the back of my skull. His kisses are more restrained now, as if he’s calming us both for what comes next.

Nothing about me is composed right now. All my attention is on him. Just when I think my heart can’t beat any faster, he pauses.

I touch the edge of his jaw.

His eyes lock on mine, questioning without words, and I answer with a tiny tilt of my chin.