"I can do it myself," she protests, but there's no real resistance in her voice.
"I know you can. But I want to."
I start with her face, gently dabbing at her forehead, her cheeks, the elegant line of her jaw. Each touch is deliberate, reverent. I follow the towel with my lips, pressing soft kisses to her skin after I've dried it.
"You really don't have to do this," she murmurs as I work my way down to her neck.
"You’re persistent." I brush my lips against her pulse point. "I want to."
The towel glides over her collarbones, down to the swell of her breasts. I take my time here, fascinated by the way her nipples pebble again under the gentle friction of the cloth. I can't resist leaning down to taste one, drawing a sharp gasp from her.
"That's not helping me cool down," she says, fingers tangling in my hair.
I smile against her skin. "Not trying to cool you down. Just clean you up."
"You're smiling," she says, fingertips brushing my lips. "I can feel it." She was afraid of thunder, but now she’s so completely absorbed in me that she doesn’t notice it. That’s a mission accomplished if you ask me.
"Am I?"
I continue my journey downward, over the gentle curves of her stomach and hips. Every inch of her is perfect—the soft belly, the stretch marks on her hips. I kiss each spot with equal devotion.
When I reach between her legs, I slow down even further, the towel impossibly gentle against her sensitive flesh. She shivers, thighs parting instinctively.
"Easy," I murmur. "Just cleaning you up." I kiss her inner thigh softly, tasting salt and her. "Still sensitive?"
Her laugh is breathless. "Very."
I finish my ministrations, folding the towel and setting it aside. When I settle back beside her, she immediately curls into me, her head finding its familiar spot on my chest. Her hair tickles my jaw as she adjusts herself, one leg thrown over mine.
"Better?" I ask, running my fingers through her curls.
"Much." Her voice is growing drowsy, satisfaction making her pliant. "Though I think you enjoyed that more than you should have."
"Guilty." I press my lips to the top of her head. "I like taking care of you."
Violet goes quiet at that, and I wonder if I've said too much. But then she traces lazy patterns on my chest, following invisible lines in the darkness.
"The power's still out," she observes.
"Might be out all night. These old lines don't handle storms well." I pull the warm covers over us.
"Good." The word is muffled against my skin. "I like this better anyway."
My heart does something complicated in my chest. "Yeah?"
"Mmm. No distractions. Just us."
I tighten my arms around her, memorizing the weight of her against me. "Just us," I agree.
Thunder rumbles overhead, but gentler now. The storm is moving away, taking its fury with it. Violet's breathing deepens, her body growing heavier as sleep claims her.
I lie awake longer, listening to the rain soften against the windows. Her words echo in my mind—just us. It's what I want.
But wanting something and having it are different things entirely. And Violet Colton, brilliant and guarded and absolutely everything I never knew I needed, remains as elusive as ever.
Even here, under the warm covers, naked and sated in my arms, she feels like something I'm borrowing rather than something that's mine to keep.
Chapter 12
