“Hold still,” he muttered.
I forced myself to stay still as he washed me there. His touch was thorough. Invasive as he parted my folds, as his fingers slid over my clit, between my lips, making sure every inch of me was clean. I was shaking again, but not from fear. From something else. Something I didn’t want to name as he rinsed me off, thehot water washing away the soap, and then he turned me around again.
“Hands on the wall.”
I pressed my palms against the cool tile, and my heart pounded so hard I could hear it echoing in my ears. The bathroom felt smaller somehow; the air was thick with steam. He poured shampoo into his hands and then his hands were in my hair. His fingers worked through the strands methodically, massaging my scalp in slow, deliberate circles, as he worked the lather from root to tip with practiced ease.
It felt... good. Too good.
Better than it had any right to feel.
The pressure of his fingers was firm but not rough, and sent tingles down my spine. The warmth of the water cascaded over me as the clean, fresh scent of the shampoo was overwhelming. My senses felt heightened, every touch amplified.
I felt my shoulders relax despite myself. The tension I had been holding onto slowly melted away under his touch. He rinsed my hair carefully, as he made sure no soap got in my eyes, then applied conditioner. His fingers combed through my tangles with surprising gentleness, patient and unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world. When he was done, he turned off the water abruptly. The sudden silence was deafening as he stepped out of the shower without a word, and I heard him grab a towel from the rack.
I stood there, dripping, water pooling at my feet, my hands still pressed against the wall for support, not sure what to do or what came next.
“Come here.”
I turned and stepped out of the shower, as water streamed down my skin in rivulets. He stood right there, waiting for me, holding a towel in his hands. He wrapped it around me with surprising gentleness, and tucked it securely undermy arms, and then grabbed another towel from the rack and started drying my hair. His movements were efficient. Practiced. Deliberate. Like he had done this a thousand times before. Like this was second nature to him. When my hair was no longer dripping wet, reduced to just damp strands that clung to my neck and shoulders, he led me back into his bedroom and sat me down on the edge of his bed. His hand was warm and steady on my elbow.
“Stay.”
The command was soft but firm. There was no room for argument in his voice.
I stayed.
He disappeared into the bathroom and came back a moment later with a hairbrush and a bottle of lotion. I heard the soft pad of his footsteps on the carpet. He stood behind me and started brushing my hair. Slowly. Carefully. Methodically. Working through my tangles with a patience I didn’t expect from someone like him. The brush moved through my hair in long, steady strokes, starting at the ends as he worked his way up to the roots, and I felt my eyes start to close. My breathing slowed. The tension I had been carrying in my shoulders began to melt away.
No. Don’t relax. Don’t let your guard down.
But I couldn’t help it. The sensation was too soothing. Too comforting. Too intoxicating. Every stroke of the brush through my hair felt like he was untangling not just the knots in my hair, but the knots in my mind, in my chest, in my very soul. By the time he finished, my hair was soft and smooth, falling in damp waves down my back, each strand perfectly separated and gleaming in the low light. He set the brush aside with a gentle click against the nightstand and picked up the lotion.
“Lie down.”
I hesitated, my heart suddenly pounding in my chest.
This felt like crossing some invisible line we had been dancing around all evening.
“Alexandra. Lie down.” His voice was firm but gentle, leaving no room for argument.
I lay on my stomach, my face turned to the side, my hands tucked under the pillow, as I gripped the soft fabric like an anchor. I heard the cap of the lotion bottle open with a soft pop, heard him squeeze some into his hands, the sound of him rubbing his palms together to warm it, and then his hands were on me again. Starting at my shoulders. He worked the lotion into my skin with slow, deliberate strokes, his fingers kneading my tight muscles in my neck and shoulders with just the right amount of pressure. The scent of lavender and vanilla filled the air around me.
I bit back a moan, my teeth sinking into my lower lip.
Don’t. Don’t make a sound.
But it felt so fucking good. His hands moved down my spine, over my ribs, across the small of my back. He took his time, and made sure every inch of my skin was covered, his touch firm and steady. When he reached my ass, I tensed, every muscle in my body going rigid. But he didn’t do anything inappropriate. Just massaged the lotion into my skin with the same methodical precision he had used everywhere else, his hands moving over the curve of my cheeks, down the backs of my thighs as my body started to feel heavy. Relaxed. Like I was sinking into a cloud of seduction.
No. This is wrong. He’s conditioning you. He’s grooming you. This is how it starts.
But the thought slipped away as his hands moved to my calves, my ankles, my feet. He massaged each foot with the same meticulous care, as his thumbs pressed into my arches, working out knots I didn’t know I had. The pressure was perfect—not toohard, not too soft. Just right. When he was done with my legs, he tapped my hip twice.
“Turn over.”
I turned onto my back, my eyes half-closed, and my body felt like it was made of warm honey. Everything felt distant. Hazy. He started on my arms, working the lotion into my skin from shoulder to fingertip, paying special attention to my wrists, my palms, and the webbing between my fingers. Then my chest. My stomach. My hips. Each touch deliberate, unhurried.
When his hands moved between my thighs, I didn’t tense this time.
