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The subtle flare of her hips, the long, curvy thighs, the breasts that were just a bit more than a handful.
She once grumbled down at her chest when we were at the beach, and claimed no one was going to take her seriously with such big boobs.
Clearly, that had not been quite the issue she thought it might be.
I had to take a long, deep breath.
“Turn around, Ama,” I demanded, hoping she didn’t hear how thick my voice was.
If she did, she didn’t let on, just turning her back on me.
Reaching out, my fingers slid her hair to one shoulder, and I tried not to notice the way a shiver coursed through her at the contact.
My fingers trace down her soft skin, snagging the clasps of her bra, and working them free.
As soon as the sides bounced apart, I should have moved away.
But my fingers went back up to her shoulders, pushing the straps off of them.
I needed to get a grip.
Clearly, I only had so much self-control when it came to Ama. Even after all these years.
“Keep your arm out of the water. The tape is great but not perfect,” I told her as I took a step back.
I was at the door before I realized she was looking over her shoulder at me.
I went ahead and closed the door on the heated look she was giving me.
Alone, I slammed my head back against the wall, exhaling hard.
It was going to fucking kill me to keep trying to be the good guy. But the last fucking thing she needed after being attacked and injured was for me to complicate shit further. If for no other reason than she was going to need help. And without me, there was no one else to step in.
Everyone should have someone.
And, damnit, Ama was always going to have me.
Even if it killed me.
Making my way back to the kitchen, I put some coffee on, texted Huck, Cato, and Levee, then put away some of the shit that was still sitting out from right before she went to go grab her phone.
“Ah, Seeley?” Ama called, making me turn and rush into the hall.
And there she was, half leaning out of the bathroom door in just a light pink silk robe that just… wasn’t leaving much to the imagination.
“Yeah?”
“Can I ask you to do something without it being weird?”
“Always,” I said, shrugging. “What is it?”
“Can you help me wash my hair? I just don’t feel clean if I don’t wash that too. It’s still got blood in it. I tried with one hand but it just wasn’t cutting it.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, grabbing one of her chairs from her counter that clearly doubled as her dining space, and making my way into the bathroom, setting it up beside the tub. “Sit,” I told her as I reached for the shower wand. “Lean back.”
And then I washed her hair.
And as my fingers rubbed the shampoo into her scalp, I was far too aware of the way her body relaxed, of how her breathing went slow and deep, making her breasts press against the barely-there material of her robe.
