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He unbuttoned the flannel slowly. Boone never hurried taking anything off me. Not even after weeks of knowing my body. Not even when I was already reaching for him. Each button opened beneath his fingers. His knuckles grazed my sternum. The silver clover appeared. His eyes settled there.

"Pretty," he said.

The word hit harder from him because Boone did not scatter compliments. He placed them.

I shrugged the shirt off.

His gaze moved over my breasts, my stomach, the faint bruises along one thigh where a calf had kicked the gate into me.

He touched the bruise. "Feeling better?"

"Yes."

He considered. "Good girl for reporting it to me yesterday."

My body answered before my mouth did.

My nipples tightened. Heat gathered between my legs with embarrassing speed.

Boone noticed. Of course he did. His thumb traveled above the bruise, slow against the inside of my thigh. "Bath first."

"That seems needlessly responsible."

"You're sore."

"I could be sore in more interesting places."

His eyes lifted to mine. Deep brown. Careful. No fear in them now. Not fear of me or himself.

"Could arrange that," he said.

I swallowed.

"Yes, Daddy."

His hand closed around the back of my thigh. Not hard. A promise. Then he stood and led me into the bathroom.

The tub was old cast iron and too small for Boone by any reasonable standard. It fit me with room left over. Steam clouded the mirror. He had put my shampoo on the rim and a folded towel within reach.

I stepped in, hissed at the heat, then sank until water covered my breasts.

Boone sat on the closed toilet lid behind me.

"Lean back."

"I remain capable."

"Josie."

I gladly lost the argument. I leaned my head into his hands.

Warm water poured through my hair from a tin cup. His fingers worked shampoo into my scalp, firm enough to make my eyes close. Nobody had washed my hair since I was a child. Nobody had ever done it without making the care into debt.

Boone's thumbs moved at my temples. "What do you need?" he asked.

"This."

"More," he urged softly.