He looked incredible.
Without the charcoal suit, without the crisp white shirt and the silk tie, he was just… pure, raw architecture. His back was a landscape of defined muscle, the water tracking down the deep channel of his spine. His golden hair was plastered to his skull, dark with moisture. He looked stripped down, elemental.
He must have heard the door swing, or maybe he just sensed the change in air pressure, because his head lifted. He turned slowly.
His eyes pinned me. They weren't the icy, assessing blue of the businessman investigating a contract breach. They were darker, blown wide by the steam and the memory of the night.
"You're awake," he said. His voice was rough, a gravelly rasp that skittered down my spine.
"The bed was empty," I murmured, clutching the lapels of my robe. "I woke up and… the silence was loud."
Anders turned fully, water sluicing down his chest, over the flat planes of his stomach, and into the dark-gold hair trails that disappeared lower. He shut off the water, leaving a sudden, ringing quiet, then reached for a thick white towel.
"Daniel and Simon went to check the perimeter," he said, wiping his face. "The storm broke the tree line. They’re clearing branches from the driveway."
"And you?"
"I’m cleaning up the mess," he said simply.
He dropped the towel and stepped out of the stall, disregarding his nudity with an arrogant ease that made my mouth go dry. He walked straight to me, dripping wet, smelling of clean soap and underlying bourbon heat.
"Drop the robe," he commanded.
It wasn't a bark. It wasn't the angry order of the man in the kitchen. It was soft. Intimate.
I let the silk slide off my shoulders. It pooled on the wet tile floor.
Anders’ gaze dragged over me, heavy and physical. He looked at the bruises mottling my hips, the bite mark on my shoulder, the way my skin was flushed pink from the residual heat in my blood.
"We were rough," he noted, his brow furrowing slightly. He reached out, tracing a purple mark on my collarbone with a wet thumb. "Are you hurting?"
"I'm sore," I admitted, leaning into his touch. "But I'm not hurt. I feel… real. Grounded."
"Good."
He stepped back into the shower stall and turned the water on again, adjusting the temperature. He gestured for me to join him.
I stepped onto the slate floor. The water was hot, bordering on scalding, just the way I liked it. It beat down on my shoulders, loosening the tension in my neck instantly.
Anders picked up the bottle of body wash, my expensive bergamot stuff, and squeezed a generous amount onto a natural sponge.
"Turn around," he murmured.
I obeyed.
He began to wash me.
It was an act of service so tender it made my throat tight. He wasn't trying to arouse me; he was taking care of me. He scrubbed my back in slow, firm circles, working the lather into my skin before he moved down to my hips, his large hands soaping away the sweat and the fluids of the night before.
"You carried so much tension here," he said quietly, his thumbs digging into my lower back. "For years, probably. Sitting in that chair. Hunching over a keyboard."
"I was hiding," I whispered, closing my eyes as the water rinsed the suds away.
"I know." He moved to my front, turning me gently. He knelt on the wet tile, Anders Svinton, the man who seemed like he wouldn't sit on a park bench without checking for dust, was kneeling on my shower floor.
He washed my legs, lifted my foot, washed the arch, the ankle, and moved up my calf. He was meticulous. I felt like a priceless artifact that had been recovered from a shipwreck.
"You deserve to be clean," he said, his voice low, vibrating against my thigh. "You deserve to start fresh."
