I turned around, finding her at the door, twisting her hands nervously. She was still dirty from the day’s work—a smudge of dirt on her cheek, hay in her hair. She had her backpack slung over her shoulder, and all it took was one look for her to drop it by the door. The room felt charged all of a sudden with things unspoken…with desire I’d been holding back for a long time, even if that made me a fucking monster.
“We should shower,” I said, breaking the silence.
She blinked. “Um…together?”
I cocked my head at her. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”
She swallowed hard. Pulled off her Carhart and dropped it on the floor, followed by the unbuttoned flannel. Her hands went to her t-shirt next, and she pulled that off too, revealing a plain white sports bra. It was tight enough to leave red marks on her stomach and ribs. I wanted to trace them with my tongue.
“Bathroom’s that way,” I said, tilting my head.
She went.
The place was small, just a bedroom, a kitchenette, and a small hallway to the bathroom. I followed Haven down the hall, into the bathroom…closed the door behind us.
She sucked in a breath.
My heart stuttered.
“You can still change your mind,” I started.
But she turned around and hooked her fingers into her bra to pull it over her head, baring her breasts to me.
“I’m not going to,” she said.
“Haven—”
“Wyatt.” She reached out and put her hand flat on my chest. “Take your shirt off.”
I looked at her for a second.
Then I reached back and pulled it over my head.
Her eyes moved across my chest, my stomach, back up. She saw the shrapnel wound on my chest, the skull tattooed on my left bicep.
She swallowed.
"Okay," she said, mostly to herself.
I reached past her to turn on the shower as she unbuttoned her jeans…slid them down her waist.
Then I did the same.
FIVE
Haven
The shower was hotter than I ran mine at home. Wyatt got in behind me and reached past my shoulder to adjust the temperature without asking, which was very him, and I didn't say anything about it because the alternative was admitting that I liked it.
He washed up first. Efficient, no ceremony, soap and water like this was just part of the routine. I watched him from the corner of my eye and tried to look like I wasn't watching.
"Your turn," he said.
He washed my hair. I don't know what I expected but it wasn't that—his hands working shampoo through from root to end, slow and thorough, and I stood there with my eyes closed and tried to remember how to be a normal person.
He was a doctor—or…a vet, a combat medic at some point, even if he didn’t talk about that much. Of course he was like this.
His fingers worked from my temples back, slow circles, and I felt it all the way down my spine. I'd had my hair washed at salons before but this was nothing like that. This was a man who used his hands for a living, who knew exactly how much pressure to use, and I had to concentrate very hard on not making a sound.
