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He chuckled against my ear as his soapy hands found my shoulders, and he massaged them. His thumbs pressed into my lower neck and up toward my scalp, and I was done for.
Putty in his hands.
Well, naked putty in his hands.
He reached for another bottle and proceeded to wash my hair, taking his time and massaging my scalp. This was like a head orgasm, and I moaned as my eyes closed when he rinsed my hair with a separate hose that he held in his hand. The rain shower continued pouring down on me from above. He rinsed my hair and then proceeded to condition it.
“Are you a hairdresser on the side?” I asked, my voice playful. My eyes were closed, and my back rested against his chest.
“Well, you’ve pointed out that I’m not very lawyerly, right?”
I chuckled, and he rinsed the conditioner out of my hair. “So, you moonlight at a salon?”
“I’ve been washing my own hair for a long time, so it’s not that difficult to wash yours.” He turned me around to face him.
“Do you wash all your lovers’ hair after you spend the night with them?”
“I’ve never showered with a woman, so it would be weird to wash their hair when it was dry.” His gaze narrowed. “Spread your legs.”
I was still processing thenever showered with a woman beforecomment, before I realized what he’d asked me to do. “Why? What are you doing?”
“Just stop fucking arguing and spread your goddamn legs,” he hissed, dropping down on his knees and tipping his head up to look at me. Water droplets ran down his cheeks, and his lips turned up in the corners.
God, he was a beautiful man.
I moved my feet apart and sucked in a breath, unsure what he was up to.
He reached for the body wash and poured it into his hands before massaging his way up my legs and then, ever so gently, washing between them.
Holy shit.
I’d normally find this kind of care appalling, but for whatever reason, it was sexy and romantic and sweet.
Completely unexpected after the way he’d ravished me a few hours ago.
He had a filthy mouth, and he didn’t hold back.
And I’d loved every second of it.
But this?
This was the kind of shit someone put in a romance book. He continued gently stroking me as he kissed my lower stomach.
And then he pushed to his feet, reached for the handheld nozzle, and rinsed my soapy body.
“Thank you,” I said, as a lump formed in my throat.
Had anyone ever cared for me like this?
He didn’t say anything, just turned off the water, opened the door, and reached out for a towel, which he wrapped around my body. Then he grabbed another one and wrapped it aroundhis waist before we stepped out of the shower. He opened the cabinet beneath the vanity, pulled out a smaller hand towel, and proceeded to pat dry my hair before he started brushing it. I watched him in the mirror as he stood behind me.
I didn’t make any jokes about it because it meant something to me.
I’d told him that I was sore, and he’d done everything he could to make me feel better.
There was nothing funny about that.
“Better?” he asked.
