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He took off his jacket and hung it from a hook on the back of the door. Then he rolled his shirt sleeves up his forearms like he meant business.
I wanted to get in the bath quickly. He’d added some soap to the water, so at least the bubbles would hide some of my nakedness. But once more, I couldn’t raise one foot up to step into the bath, because it would leave all my weight on the injured one. I was determined just to grit my teeth and bear it, but then Leo picked me up again. I cried out in surprise. His forearms plunged under the water as he lowered me into it. The heat of the water surrounded me, supporting my aching muscles, and the fragrance of the soap he’d used filled my senses. He slid his arms out from under me and straightened so he was standing over me. My eyes slipped shut, and I let my head drop back against the cool of the porcelain. My injured foot remained out of the water, hooked on the side of the tub.
“Wait here.” Leo’s voice came from above me. I didn’t know where he thought I was going to go.
The swish of the door opening and closing came through the air, and I risked peeping open an eye. Sure enough, he’d left the bathroom, and I exhaled a lungful of air. I’d thought my father was intimidating, but Leo was intimidating in a whole different way.
I glanced down at my body, partially hidden by the white cloud of bubbles. My nipples peeped out from between them, and the position of my leg on the side of the bath meant my thigh was above the surface, my pussy just visible beneath. I quickly scooped more of the bubbles together to hide the parts showing and hoped they’d stay in place when Leo got back.
He returned with what looked like a first-aid kit and dragged the wicker chair to the side of the bath. He didn’t look at anything other than my foot, and I found myself strangely disappointed. Maybe I should move some of the bubbles out of the way?
Leo dipped my injured foot into the bathwater, and carefully washed off the dirt. Then he lifted it back out, patted it dry and got to work, first cleaning down the cut in my foot with alcohol. The liquid stung, and I sucked air in over my teeth. He didn’t apologise and kept a tight hold on my ankle to stop me pulling away.
“I don’t think you’re going to need stitches,” he said, “but no more running around outside in bare feet.”
Was that supposed to be some kind of joke?
He bandaged my foot. “You need to keep this dry, too. Don’t get it in the water.”
“It’s not going to be easy for me to get back out of the bath again.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll help you.”
He dipped his hand into the warm water, scooping up the bubbles, and then washed my ankle, making sure not to get the bandage wet. The water turned pink, and I realised he was washing both my own and another man’s blood off my skin. His hand ran down my calf, soaping me and massaging my muscles. His hands felt incredible, and I had to stop from groaning with pleasure.
His hand went lower, skirting across the back of my knee, and to my thigh. My head swam with pleasure at the firm pressure of his fingers working my muscles.
“What are you doing?” I dared to ask, my voice breathy.
“What does it look like?”
With each stroke, his hand moved higher and higher, massaging the inside of my thigh, barely skirting my pussy. My stomach muscles grew taut, a tingling heat condensing at my core. I slipped my eyes shut, unable to look at him, not wanting him to see my need. I didn’t want him to accuse me of using him again when this was clearly of his doing.
His hand left my thigh, and I held back a groan of disappointment. But then he lifted my other foot out of the water and repeated the process down the other leg. I had to grip on to the sides of the bath to stop myself slipping down farther, and I was fully aware of the way the position I was in, with one foot hooked over the side and the other above the surface, had spread my legs. If the bubbles moved, he’d be able to see my pussy in all its glory.
I risked opening an eye to find him staring at my face. It was as though he was seeing me properly for the first time and was now studying me, trying to figure me out.
“That feels good, doesn’t it?”
I couldn’t lie. “Yes.”
His hand was beneath the water. “How about this?”
He cupped my pussy, and a finger parted my folds and ran up my slit. I let out a whimper. “Yes.”
His finger pushed inside me. “And this?”
I was panting now. “Oh God, yes.”
His thumb found my clit, and I bowed with pleasure, my tits rising out of the water.
“Fucking hell,” he growled. “You’re beautiful.”
No one had ever told me I was beautiful before, not like this. I bit my lower lip and wished he’d kiss me, but he remained on the chair, leaning over the bath, his fingers inside me. His movements created little ripples in the water, and I found myself moving as well, turning the ripples into waves.
“That’s it, good girl. I want to hear all those noises coming from your lips. Keep those pretty thighs spread for me.”
Stupidly, I wanted to please him. I knew I shouldn’t—I still had the bruises on me this man had caused—but I’d lost my ability to say no. It wasn’t just about the fact he was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen either, though admittedly, that played a part. It was the pain in his blue eyes, the way he seemed to constantly wrestle between two sides of himself. He’d obviously lost someone he’d cared deeply for, and there were moments, like when he’d carried me from the forest and washed the blood from my skin, that I glimpsed the man he’d been before he’d suffered that loss.
