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But grabbing for the cloth in his hands spikes excruciating pain up my arm.
To his credit, he keeps his eyes closed, but that doesn’t save me from a lecture.
“You give so much of that light of yours to everyone else without nurturing its source. But eventually, it’s going to burn out.” The water ripples as I squirm. The urge to bite my nails is so intense, I curl my fists. “Lie back. Let me show you what it’s like to be taken care of unconditionally and without expectation.”
His steely expression eases when I concede, doing as he’s asked.
“I’ll be gentle,” Logan promises, and despite it all, I know I don’t have to question him.
Keeping his injured hand on the edge of the tub, he dips the washcloth below the surface, searching for my leg.
With the bubbles shielding me from view, I sigh. “You can open your eyes if you want to.”
The cloth stills, tickling the outside of my calf. “If you’re sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
Those blue eyes blink open, and I don’t miss the subtle part of his lips as he strains to keep his gaze on his task.
He works the rag between my toes, scrubbing my feet, then up each leg, and it’s increasingly hard to fight how arousing this is.
His thumb massages tiny circles all the way toward my knee, where he pauses when I involuntarily jerk. Shaking his head, he grunts. “Should’ve killed him.”
“So serious,” I tease, dragging his gaze back to mine.
The bathroom falls eerily quiet while his eyes blaze a trail down my neck to my breasts bobbing at the surface, masked by a thin layer of suds.
Time slows when the tip of the rag flutters between my thighs. I snag my lower lip with my teeth as his breaths grow labored, watching my reaction as he drags it up my center.
It whispers over my clit, and instinctually, my legs part.
God, I know I shouldn’t—not after last night, and not with all our unpacked baggage—but I desperately want him to touch me there.
I want him to take care of me, as he said. Not just in the form of blissful release, but to let him nurture all the unloved pieces of me that I keep hidden.
The heat from the bath warms his skin, enhancing his natural scent enough to make me drunk with it, and it’d be so easy to give in to him. To spread my shaking legs a little wider and let his fingers slip inside me.
If I was worried about him seeing my reaction to him earlier, there’s no disguising it now.
“Pen,” he grits, flattening his palm at the thickest, tenderest point of my upper thigh. Just an inch or two closer, and those fingers would undo me.
It’s a temptation I almost can’t resist, and he watches me battle logic and desire with a thousand questions lying in his scorching stare. But if I’m going to give myself to him, it’ll be when I finally know the truth. And no question is more important than the one I’ve been clinging to for the last twelve years.
“What you said last night about Stanford… Is it true?”
Gradually, he shutters away his desire and removes his palm. He steels his expression and gestures for my hand. “Figured you forgot about that.”
“Not a chance,” I say, lifting it as much as I can for him.
He softly scrubs my fingers and up my arm, his eyes steadily avoiding my chest, which is dangerously close to being exposed.
“Yes, it’s true.”
But if they denied him, does that mean he didn’t intentionally vanish? And if that’s the case, then why don’t I feel better?
The devastation of waking up to find him gone rears up from the past.
“You didn’t call,” I say weakly.
