"Hi," she said.
"Hi." He brushed a strand of wet hair from her face.
"I'm still a little angry," she said.
"I know." His mouth curved into a smile. "We're working on it."
He reached for the soap, worked it between his hands, and when his palms came back to her skin it was different, still warm, still deliberate, but covering more ground now. Her shoulders, her arms, the curve of her sides.
She closed her eyes again.
His hands moved over her like he was learning her. He took his time, in that specific way a man who intended to know everything and wasn't going to shortcut the process. He traced the curve of her waist, the line of her ribs, and she felt every point of contact with an intensity that had nothing to do with how slow it was and everything to do with how much attention he brought to it. The water was hot, but that didn’t stop goosebumps from rising all over her naked body.
"You can breathe," he said.
"I am breathing."
"You're holding your breath, baby girl."
She exhaled.
His lips came to her shoulder. The curve of her neck. He kissed his way across her collarbone while his hands continued their slow, deliberate exploration, and she gripped the back of his arm and held on.
"Rampage—" His name came out differently than usual. Softer. Asking something she hadn't finished forming into words.
"I've got you," he said into her neck. "Just feel it."
She let herself feel.
His hand moved lower, slow and certain, and she turned her face into his jaw, and when he touched her between her legs she gasped against his skin.
"Okay?" he said.
"Yes." She gripped his arm tighter. "Yes."
He didn't rush. That was the thing she hadn't fully anticipated. His complete, unhurried patience. He kissed her while he touched her, deep and slow, his free hand in her hair, and she stopped thinking about the network and Marcus Delling and the two months and everything that had been pressing at her chest all morning, and there was just this.
Just him. Just his hands and his mouth and the warm weight of his attention.
He rubbed her clit with the pad of his thumb and then pushed a finger in between her legs. She moaned into his mouth as he quickened the movements, thrusting his finger in, curving it up while simultaneously stroking her clit. He broke the kiss. "Let go," he said against her mouth.
She let go.
The release moved through her in waves, her forehead dropping to his shoulder, his name in her mouth, his arms holding her through all of it.
After, she stood against him while the water ran over them both and her breathing came back to something normal and the anger, she realized, was gone.
Not suppressed. Not moved around.
Gone.
"Better?" he asked.
She laughed. Surprised and genuine and loose. "That's one word for it."
She felt the low rumble in his chest.
He picked up the washcloth. And finished washing her properly, thoroughly, from her shoulders to the ends of her, and she stood and let him and felt, the whole time, the specific quality of being tended to. Cared for.
