He worked water through her hair. Dark strands slicked under his palms, turning black. Each movement sent ripples through the bath, her body shifting minutely with the water, pressing back into him.
Skin on skin. No barriers.
Just warmth and water and her.
He wanted her. And not just this. His want had roots in it—deep ones that scared him.
He gritted his teeth and reached for the shampoo. The clean, minty scent bloomed between them. He worked it into her scalp with careful fingers, firm but gentle. Circles. Pressure.
She made a quiet sound—barely there. Just breath leaving her body. Heat shot through him. His hands stilled, fingers buried in her hair. His jaw locked so tight it hurt.
She’s not asking for that. This isn’t that.
He forced himself to breathe. To keep going, finding tangles and working them loose with patience he didn’t know he had. Focusing on the task and absolutely not on the way her shoulders had gone loose, or how she leaned back into him as if she’d forgotten how to hold herself up.
“Okay?” he asked.
“Mm-hm.”
He rinsed her hair, unhooking the shower attachment and letting the water run through it, something practical to focus on instead of how good she felt against him.
Her eyes remained closed, her mouth soft and relaxed. As if she’d set something heavy down and trusted him to keep watch.
The sight of her like this—trusting, unbraced—hit him harder than any firefight.
He worked the conditioner through her hair, slow and careful, memorizing the feel of it sliding through his fingers, silk-smooth as he rinsed it clean.
He’d never wanted to kiss someone more in his life. And he’d never been more determined not to.
“All done,” he said quietly.
She didn’t move. The water lapped softly against porcelain, steam drifting in slow curls along the tiles.
“We should rinse off,” she murmured.
“Yeah.”
He offered his hand. She took it and he helped her to her feet. He stood behind her, unhooked the shower head, and guided the water slowly from her shoulders to her calves, careful and methodical—giving himself something to focus on besides the way candlelight turned her wet skin to gold. He’d seen a lot of beautiful things—sunsets over the Pacific, mountains at dawn, the ocean from forty feet.
None of them came close to her.
He kept his gaze where it needed to be.Mostly.
His body was a mess of want and restraint, heat and discipline. Every instinct screamed at him to pull her closer, turn her around, take what they both?—
No.
Not like this. Not when she’d trusted him with this. He could want her and still do the right thing.
Hewasdoing the right thing.
He shut off the water. The sudden quiet was loud.
She turned to face him. Water dripped from her hair, running in paths over the curve of her shoulders. “Wyatt.”
His name in her voice.
He stilled, every muscle rigid. “Yeah?”
