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“If you want something done, do it yourself.”
“What did I say about that attitude, Aurora?”
I huff, but the sound soon vanishes when he grabs the straps, his fingers gliding over my skin along with them as he lowers them down my body.
Staring at a fixed point in the bathroom, I pretend my flesh isn’t tingling and my face isn’t heating with the mere effect of his presence.
Soon enough, the nightgown pools at my feet. His gaze slides down my nakedness as if it’s the first time he’s seen me.
His fingers stroke over my scar and the tattoo, and something in his eyes and the way his lashes flutter against his cheek tells me he knows exactly how I got it.
The weight of his attention on that part of me is like reliving the time when I struggled to move from one corner to the other to get to the pharmacy, buy medicine, and suture the wound.
It was a mess, but I managed to close it. However, when it became worse, not better, I didn’t have someone like him to tend to it, and I was so clueless about self-care back then.
“You closed it yourself.” His thumb slides across the skin with a deceptive tenderness. “You had an infection, too. It must’ve hurt. You must’ve been feverish.”
“H-how do you know that?”
“It’s the same attacker, isn’t it?” His attention drifts from my scar to my face.
The way he’s looking at me, that focus, and the anger that…somehow doesn’t seem to be directed at me, overthrows me.
I push him away and storm to the tub. In my haste to get inside and hide my scar and the tattoo, I slip.
My shriek fills the bathroom, but instead of hitting my head against the edge, I’m held steady by a strong hand.
“Easy.” The tenor of his voice is that of care.
No. He shouldn’t care. He doesn’t.
I flop under the bubbles, hiding my nakedness from sight. The water is cool on my skin, not too hot and not too cold. It’s the perfect temperature — as usual.
Jonathan is silent as he retrieves the apple-scented shampoo and pours it on my head.
I try to zone out, but the way his fingers glide through my hair in slow, measured strokes robs me of my breath.
He doesn’t even seem bothered by the stubborn knots at the back of my head. Since my hair is long, I always have the hardest time washing it.
Yet he takes his time with the knots, one by one, until my hair falls smoothly to my back. He holds it above the water as he rinses it, then ties it at the top.
Jonathan isn’t the type to show tenderness, so it’s definitely not to be taken for granted when he does.
But now that he’s doing this under these circumstances, I don’t know how to react. Is this a ploy? A game?
He grabs the sponge and uses it to lather my body. He doesn’t linger on my nipples and barely touches me between my legs. His only intent seems to be to bathe me. That’s all. I’m the one who struggles not to close my thighs when his fingers trail down my stomach.
The bath is finished way too soon, and he rinses me, stands me up, then wraps me in a fresh, soft towel.
It’s too harsh against my heated skin. He might’ve not touched me in a sexual way, but my
body has already gotten the signals. My nipples are hard and pointy, and my core keeps freaking pulsing.
Stop it, damn you.
As he dries me, Jonathan takes his time running the towel against my aching nipples. I nearly topple over as I swallow the moans trying to slip through.
The spark in his eyes suggests he knows exactly what he’s doing to me and is doing it on purpose.
