Wild Side (Rose Hill #3)

33. Rhys

CHAPTER 33

RHYS

We sit under the freezing spray, wrapped together, for I don’t know how long. All I know is that eventually her sobs abate and all the tension in her body melts away until she’s slumped, limp in my arms.

My thumb hurts from rubbing circles on her temple, my tailbone is sore from sitting on hard tiles, and I’m cold to the bone, but I’ll hold her for hours more if she needs me to.

Except a shiver races down her spine, and her jaw quivers.

“Okay, Tabby Cat.” I swipe her wet hair back, gently urging her up. “Let’s get you warmed up now.”

She nods and lets me lift her. I take her from the shower and step onto the bath mat, easing her down to her feet. Water drips heavily from both of us. When I reach back in to crank the handle to off, a hush falls over the space. What felt loud now feels unbearably quiet, save for the odd chatter of her teeth.

My lips flatten, and I shake my head, irritated that I let her get so cold.

I cup her shoulders with my hands, rubbing up and down briskly. “You need to get the wet clothes off, honey. You’re freezing.”

She nods again, but I don’t get the sense she’s absorbing much of what I’ve said. Her eyes are far away, and her typical perfect posture has slumped down into something deeply sad.

I set my jaw for what I’m about to offer. “Do you want me to help you?”

Now her eyes meet mine, red and devastated.

She nods, and I nod back. Then I reach for the hem of her sweatshirt. I don’t let my hands linger—I make quick, respectful work of peeling the wet fabric from her body. Her arms lift, and I tug it over her head.

And fuck me, she isn’t wearing a bra.

I drop the sweatshirt to the floor in a sopping pile and take Tabitha’s naked body in for the first time. My throat goes dry as my eyes snag on her breasts, and then I follow her shirt and drop to the floor in front of her, trying to focus on the task at hand, desperately trying to ignore the voice in my head. The one reminding me that this isn’t the way I’ve imagined kneeling in front of Tabitha’s naked body.

I start with each woolen sock, gently gripping her behind her knees and tugging the heavy fabric away.

“Pants next, okay?” I look up at her, searching her face for some sign of consent.

I get another nod, though her mouth doesn’t move. Her hair and her arms hang limp at her sides. She looks so defeated, and it fucking kills me.

I look away, focusing on the button on her jeans. When my fingers pop the metal open, her hand moves to my head, and she sucks in a sharp breath.

I’m not brave enough to look up at her, so I stay focused, even though the tips of her fingers trail through the strands of my hair.

My digits curl over the waistband, and I tug.

Her other hand falls to my hair as I peel the sopping denim from her hips. A plain black thong has never looked so appealing, but I ignore the stirring beneath my waist—and the way her hand slips down my neck to grip my shoulder. I tap her inner thigh when I get the pants low enough, and she lifts her foot for me to pull the jeans clear. We repeat the motions on the opposite side, her hands roaming more freely as I do.

I swallow before finally looking back up at her. Now her dark eyes are swirling, and there’s a light flush on her previously pale cheeks. Her palms slide back, cupping my head as her fingers continue twisting in my hair.

I don’t know how long we stare at each other, but it’s just vulnerable enough to make my heart race.

Eventually, she breaks the silence with a thin sounding “Thank you.”

It’s my turn to only offer her a nod. I don’t trust myself to speak at the moment, so I just press a quick kiss to her hip, right where the strap of her panties hugs the bone. Then I move on quickly, reaching for a towel, drying every inch of her. Her skin, her hair, all the way down her legs. I move over the top of her underwear, not willing to cross that line at a moment like this.

Once she’s dry, I push to standing and lift her small frame into my arms before striding from the bathroom.

I need to get her tucked in before I do something stupid. Like look too closely at the swirling heat in her eyes, kiss her, or peel her flimsy underwear off her body. This isn’t the time or the place—hell, there might never be the right time or place. But I’d rather live with knowing that than thinking I took advantage of a fragile moment.

Her bedroom door is open and the bed perfectly made. I hold her flush with one arm as I reach forward and turn down the sheets. When I place her down on the mattress, she sighs and her eyes go heavy. I lift the down-filled duvet over her, trying not to gawk at how fucking beautiful she looks in the warm glow of the small bedside lamp.

Unable to resist, I run a palm over her hair. She stares at me with that same look from the bathroom, and I can’t quite put my finger on what it means.

All I know is no one has ever looked at me the way Tabitha Garrison does.

I clear my throat as I pull away, towering over her. “You rest. I’m going to go clean up. I’ll let you get rid of the underwear.”

Her lashes flutter in a languid sweep, fingers wrapped around the duvet as she tugs it up beneath her chin. Her lips pop open, and my brain can’t fucking handle it. Sordid images crash through my mind. Me crawling in with her. Making quick work of those flimsy panties. Sliding down her body.

I spin away from her, giving my head a hard shake as I leave. I go straight for the bathroom. With a click, I lock the door and strip the wet clothes from my body, each piece landing with a sopping sound. My dick is at half-mast when I ditch my boxers.

“You’ve got the self-control of a gnat, Dupris,” I mutter to myself as I bend to lift our soaked clothes from the floor. After I make a big wet ball of them, I march out into the hallway and make my way to the basement where I can start the laundry.

Agitation lines every motion, my feet landing on the floors harder than usual. I open the door at the top of the stairs with a forceful yank, my hand flicking at the light switch like it’s done something to offend me.

I’m grumbling under my breath as I stomp down the wood steps into the concrete-covered basement. But when I turn to face the space, I freeze in my tracks. Water from the clothes held against my naked body drips onto the bridge of my left foot as I stare.

My room is… not the same. New bedside tables flank a matching bed frame, with deep maroon sheets and perfectly plump pillows. A large rug softens the floor. There appear to be photos propped on the framing. There’s… I don’t know. It’s cozy and warm and full of love.

Someone who cares put together this room, and it makes my heart fall hard on a heavy stutter step. No one has ever put a room together for me.

But Tabitha did.