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“It’s okay.” I try to hold his gaze, as if I have that power—to keep him focused on just me. “You see me right here. I’m okay.”
His eyes shut. I lift one of his hands, enfolding it in my own. “Let me start your shower. Then I’ll go if you want some space.” I squeeze his hand lightly before I let it go and step over to the shower.
Maybe I said the wrong thing, I think, as I point the shower head away from me and turn it on. If he doesn’t want space, he might be too embarrassed to ask me to stay, and now I’ve mentioned leaving.
By the time I lean out of the tub space, he’s standing over by the wall. He’s got his arms folded across his chest, a towel wrapped around his waist. His body is so big, so chiseled and strong, and yet…he looks vulnerable. I can see it on him, now that I know his face.
I wave him over. He keeps his eyes on the floor as he steps to me.
I can’t help reaching out and touching him again, my palm against his lower back. “I could get in with you. If you didn’t mind company.” I hold my breath as I look up at him.
His eyes still have that dazed look. My stomach clenches, seeing it. Without further debate, I pull the shower curtain back a little more and step in. I turn around to him and hold my hand out.
With his jaw tight and his eyes hard now—or just blank—he throws his towel over the rod and steps into the shower without touching me.
The surge of pleasure I feel watching him move is dampened by how serious he looks, how unhappy. I can feel it radiating from him.
Once again, like many times before, with him, my heart pounds and my head feels light; I want to freeze up, step away, but instead I close the gap between us, praying when I wrap my arms around him—
Yes.
You’re never wrong about this, I tell myself as the tension leaves his muscles and his forehead lowers to my shoulder.
He’s never going to ask; I make a mental note of this as we stand here together, his cheek warm against me. One of his hands cups my hip, and I lean my cheek against the top of his head.
As the water warms fully, I bring him into the spray and rub soap over his steel-hard arms and shoulders.
I notice his curls are plastered to his face, and push them gently off his forehead.
He lifts his head and looks down at me with a grave expression on his face. With his lashes and his hair wet, his eyes look round and blue and earnest.
I run the soap bar from his triceps to the soft crease inside his elbow, then along the inside of his forearm. Despite how thick and muscled he is, his soapy skin is soft as silk. His wrist is lean and square. I thread my fingers through his, squeezing gently in the spaces in between digits, then moving up toward his knuckles, massaging his hand the way a physical therapist once did mine before I left rehab.
His face slackens and his eyes slip shut.
I rub all the pressure points on his hand, hoping to draw his attention here and out of his head. Maybe I do, because a moment later, his free hand takes the soap from mine. He pulls his other hand out of my grasp, lifts his forearm up to push his hair out of his eyes, and holds my gaze with his raw, bare one as he runs his soapy hands down my arms, then down my lower belly.
He shuts his eyes and groans, but he continues stroking me, from collarbone to ribs, from ribs to hips; he soaps my lower back, the curve of my backside, and then his hands rove up my ribs and find my breasts. He cups them.
His head is down, so I can’t see his face, but I can hear him breathing as his fingers catch my nipple. I let out a soft squeak.
His length presses against my belly. I reach down and catch him with both hands. With one I cup his soapy head; the other glides down his thick shaft.
“I never got the chance to do this earlier,” I whisper.
His eyes shut, and his hips jerk.
“Gwenna, you’re too good…”
He pushes himself closer to me, causing my hand to glide down to the base of him. Bear grips one of my shoulders, breathing loudly as
I thumb his head and drag the hand that was gripping his shaft under his heavy, soapy balls.
I see his eyes roll slightly. His jaw locked, his features tense, he moans low in his throat as I pump up and down his shaft, lingering at the rim of his head and tugging gently on his sac.
“Oh fuck…” He pushes his hips toward me, and his mouth takes mine the way he does so often: gently at first, and then hard, desperate, as if he can’t stop, like he’s dying and my mouth is life.
He strokes my breast with gentle fingers, though his mouth is more and more demanding; needy: rough and almost hurting. He moans; I breathe it in. I stroke up and down his long cock, loving his small shiver.
