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And don’t get me started on that.
Isla complies without a word as I sit her on the basin and peel the sexy-as-sin boots from her shapely legs. Each second I’m touching her is a new kind of torture, and yet I find I don’t want to stop. If anything, the more my hands are on her, the less I want to remove them.
She’s impossibly soft where I’m hard, and that only seems to make me want her more. If that were even possible.
Once the boots have been discarded with the rest of her clothes, I help her back to her feet and carefully push her panties down, uncovering the paradise I know rests between her legs.
Fuck, is she beautiful.
Even as she tries to cover herself. Even as she tries to hide from me, I see her. I see all of her, and I’m obsessed. I knew I would be. The peeks I’ve allowed myself. The night I changed her into one of my shirts. This is just the final straw.
Forcing myself to keep moving rather than staring at her in all her glory, I guide her to the bathtub and hold her as she steps in before lowering herself into the warm water.
I’ve never been the kind of guy who likes to take care of people. In fact, I find it annoying. Ironic considering my profession, but at least as a doctor, everything is purely clinical and I walk away at the end.
This is different.
Everything with Isla is different.
The indifference I’ve walked through life with is void, and in its place is a burning need to protect her, to take care of her, to give her everything she could possibly want, and it’s foreign as hell.
She lets out a quiet moan as the water moves around her, and my cock reacts immediately. Jesus, she needs to not make noises like that because my control is already holding on by a thread.
I reach into the shower briefly to retrieve her shampoo, conditioner, and body wash before setting them on the edge of the bathtub.
Isla watches me with trepidation, but she doesn’t say a word. She can obviously tell I’m holding on by the slightest of threads, and one word out of her pretty mouth might make me snap.
I lean over the edge of the bath and part her hair carefully, making sure there are no cuts to contend with among the sticky shit from the floor of the club.
“Lay back and wet your hair,” I command, leaving no room for argument, and as such, she does exactly as she’s told.
Her body slides down and her eyes drift closed as she immerses her hair in the water, giving me a chance to not so subtly enjoy her body.
Fuck. Her tight body is like a siren’s call, and no matter how much I should stay away, I’m powerless to do so.
I tried. I tried so fucking hard. But every night I come home and drag her across the bed until she’s wrapped up in my arms and my mind is at peace.
And at this point, I think it’s time I stopped trying.
Isla is my wife.
I’m not some pervert prowling on a random woman half his age.
If we’re going to be married, we’re going to bemarriedin every sense of the word.
I’m done fighting my need for this woman, and she’s going to have to get with the fucking program.
Once her hair is sufficiently wet, she sits up and reaches for the shampoo, but I beat her to it. I squeeze a generous portion into my huge palm, and before she has a chance to argue, I start massaging her head.
The moan she lets out makes my cock stiffen in my jeans, but I ignore it. It’s fucking painful as hell, but I’ll deal with it after I’ve taken care of Isla. She’s my priority.
Her eyes drift closed as she allows herself to lean into my touch, and there’s something potent about her trust.
Once I’m satisfied her hair is clean, I lean her back into the water and help her rinse the suds out before repeating the process with conditioner.
By the time I reach for the body wash and sponge, my little spitfire is putty in my hands.
Her eyes flash with the slightest bit of hesitation when I squeeze way more than necessary into the sponge, but she doesn’t say anything, she just leans back against the porcelain and allows me free range of her body.
