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I laugh and his eyes snap to me, fixating on my mouth as it parts on a giggle. “You leave it in a few minutes and then rinse.”
He doesn’t react, gaze still fixed on my face.
“Tristan?”
“Sorry,” he says, snapping out of it. “Got it.”
He grabs the soap and a washcloth and drops to his knees behind me. He washes me meticulously, lifting one foot and then the other, moving over my legs, my ass and pussy, my stomach, my breasts. His touch is anything but sexual, even as he cleans the most intimate parts of me.
His hands knead the sore muscles of my shoulders as he washes my back and I can’t help but tilt my head back against his chest. The warmth of the water combined with his gentle, massaging touch relax me like I haven’t been in years. Tension I didn’t know I was holding in my shoulders loosens until I feel as limp as a noodle. I’m barely holding my own weight up, most of it resting against him as I fight the encroaching need to sleep.
He quickly washes himself then rinses the conditioner out of my hair. He steps out of the shower first and heads to his bedroom. When he comes back, he’s wearing gray sweatpants and a black tee and I swear I feel drool physically pool in my mouth at the sight. He’s carrying a chair and the effort makes the muscles of his arms strain against the fabric, mesmerizing me.
He grabs a perfectly folded and brand new, lavender-colored, fluffy towel and rips the tag off, tossing it in the bin. I swallow thickly seeing yet another proof of his thoughtfulness.
Reaching over, he turns off the water and wraps me in the towel, lifting me in his arms like I’m both fragile and precious. I feel completely weightless as he sets me back down on the vanity where we just had sex.
I expect him to leave me to get changed, but instead he sits in front of me and reaches for something in the cupboard beneath the sink. He pulls out a box full of bottles, cotton pads, band aids, and other first aid kit related items.
He reaches for my leg, bending it at the knee and setting my foot down on his thigh. He inspects the cuts there, turning my foot over in his hands as a discontented rumble rolls up his chest.
And then he gets to work, head bent and hands focused. He applies ointments to the bruises and gently wipes a cotton ball dipped in alcohol over the rough scrapes on the underside of my feet. His touch is tender, his gaze unwaveringly concentrated.
A nameless emotion tightens my throat as I watch him continue to care for me long after anyone else would have given up. It’s so unexpected, so overwhelming, so damn confusing that my body riots in an uproar of uncertainty, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer and never let him go.
I whimper in pain when he brushes over a particularly sensitive scrape and he freezes. Dark eyes snap up to meet mine before dropping back down to my foot.
Slowly, he leans forward until I feel his warm breaths fall rhythmically against the top part of my foot. I find myself holding my own breath, inexplicable tension suddenly in the air around us.
He brushes his lips over the sensitive skin next to the wound, right below my ankle.
“Sorry, baby,” he whispers, looking up at me with his mouth still on my skin.
I exhale a tremulous breath as his lips linger on me, my heart pounding, my mind spinning, my soul on fire.
My eyes flutter shut and I hold on tight to the walls I’ve spent years fortifying around myself. They metaphorically shake under the force of his assault and I scramble for objectivity, for distance of some kind. Because I have a feeling that heartbreak at Tristan’s hands isn’t something I would survive.
???
Chapter 26
Tristan
When I’m done cleaning the cuts on her feet, I leave her to get changed in the bathroom and head to the kitchen to make her dinner.
I don’t have much in the fridge nor do I have the time to prepare something really intricate, but I find that I want to impress her. I stare at the contents until an idea forms. I’m not going to be awarded any Michelin stars for this dish, but it’s perfect comfort food so I get to work.
I cut my sourdough bread and put a couple of slices in the toaster. In parallel, I throw some mint, feta, frozen peas, and lemon juice in a food processor. In a pan, I drop a few strips of Canadian bacon I got from a foreign supermarket and cook them until they’re perfectly crispy. When the bread is done, I brush olive oil over each slice and rub some garlic on them. I add the pea spread and spoon it around until it fully covers one side. Next, I add some radishes I pickled last weekend, crumble some additional feta, and add the bacon on top. I thinly slice a beefsteak tomato and place that as well.
I’m reaching into the fridge for some ham when I hear the bathroom door open and feel Nera walk into the kitchen behind me. Throwing a look over my shoulder, I motion at the small table in the middle of the room.
“Have a seat.”
The sleeves of her sweater drop below her hands and I can see her fingers playing nervously with the fabric. She looks off to the side, towards the front door, and I can tell she wants to run.
“Nera.” She looks at me when I call her name, the sound of my voice even and confident. “Sit.”
She’s in her head. I’ve come to recognize when she’s swirling in a spiral of her thoughts and I see it now. Those shadowed eyes of hers look at me speculatively as she weighs her options. There’s only one, although she doesn’t seem to realize it yet. If she moves to walk out that door before I’ve fed her, I’ll get a belt from my dresser and tie her to the chair.
