Chapter 22 – EMMA
EMMA
“Shower,” he murmurs against my throat. “We both need one.”
I laugh weakly. “I don’t think I can walk.”
“Who said anything about walking?”
Before I can respond, his arms are sliding beneath me, one under my knees and the other around my back, and he’s lifting me off the bed like I weigh nothing at all.
“Bodhi.” I loop my arms around his neck, too spent to protest properly. “This is ridiculous.”
“Humor me.”
He carries me through to the bathroom, shouldering the door open and setting me on the cold marble counter. I hiss at the temperature against my bare skin, and he smirks, reaching past me to turn on the shower.
The bathroom fills with steam as the water heats. I watch him move, still marvelling at the sheer size. Broad shoulders taper to a narrow waist, thick arms roped with muscle, and thighs like tree trunks.
And he’s mine. At least, that’s what he keeps telling me.
“Come on.” He offers me his hand, and I take it, letting him pull me off the counter and guide me into the shower.
The space is generous. A walk-in with slate tiles and a rainfall head, easily big enough for two normal people to move comfortably.
But Bodhi is not a normal person.
He has to duck to fit under the shower head, and his shoulders span most of the width, leaving me pressed between his chest and the cool tile behind me. Water cascades over us both, hot and steady, washing away the evidence of what we just did.
“Turn around,” he says.
I do, facing the wall, and a moment later, I feel his hands on my shoulders, slick with soap. He works it into my skin with slow, deliberate strokes, his thumbs digging into the knots of tension along my spine.
I groan and let my head fall forward. “That feels incredible.”
He doesn’t respond, just keeps working, his hands moving lower. Down my back, over my hips, across the curve of my ass. There’s nothing rushed about it. He’s thorough, methodical, like he’s memorizing the shape of me with his fingertips.
When he reaches my thighs, I have to brace my hands against the tile to stay upright. He kneels behind me, his big hands gentle as they soap along my calves, my ankles, even between my toes. It’s absurdly tender, this huge, dangerous man on his knees, washing my feet like I’m something precious.
“Turn,” he says again, and I do.
He’s still kneeling, looking up at me through the steam, water running in rivulets down his rugged face.
He washes the front of my legs, my stomach, my breasts, his touch careful despite the intimacy of it. When he stands, he pulls me under the spray to rinse, his hands smoothing the soap away.
“My turn,” I say, reaching for the bottle.
“I’ve already been here too long.” He goes still but doesn’t stop me as I squeeze soap into my palm and press my hands to his chest.
He’s a landscape of muscle and scar tissue.
I trace the ridges of his stomach, the hard planes of his pectorals, the dip at the base of his throat where his pulse beats steady and strong.
Old scars crisscross his skin, silver with age, and I follow each one with my fingers, wondering about the stories behind them.
He lets me explore, his eyes half-closed, water streaming over his shoulders.
I work my way around to his back, standing on my toes to reach, and he hunches slightly to give me better access.
My fingers slide over his shoulder blade, and I pause.
There’s a raised ridge of scar tissue there. Small, curved. A pink crescent shape that looks new.
He growls, louder than I’ve ever heard before, his huge hand slamming against the tile wall as his muscles go taut.
“What the…?” Bodhi tries to turn, but I rest my hands on his shoulder.
“Stay.”
And he adorably complies, still breathing heavily when I trace it again.
The car. The first night. I’d been so furious and scared that I kicked and screamed and bit down on anything I could reach.
“I hurt you.” The words come out barely above a whisper. Guilt twists in my stomach as I trace the scar again. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize I’d actually broken the skin…”
His hand shoots back, fingers finding the spot where mine rest, and a full-body shudder runs through him. He seems to swell before my eyes, his entire body vibrating now with his deep rumble.
“Bodhi?” I take a step back, suddenly uncertain. “Are you okay? I never meant to do that.”
“Do that again.” His voice is rough. Strange. Almost unrecognizable.
“What?”
“Touch it again.”
I hesitate, confused by the intensity of his reaction, but I do as he asks and reach out to trace the ridge with my fingertip.
The sound he makes isn’t human.
It’s low and raw, and torn from somewhere deep in his chest. Before I can process it, he’s spinning around, his forearms resting on either side of my head, caging me in.
“Bodhi.” I press my palms flat against his chest, not pushing, just grounding. “What’s…”
Head bowed, brows low, he inhales deeply, then dips further, nuzzling that spot behind my ear that makes butterflies explode in my belly.
“Again.” The word is barely a growl. “Touch it again, Emma.”
My hand is shaking as I reach around him and brush my fingers across it, feather-light, tingles dancing down my fingers, and watch as his whole body shudders.
“What is this?” I whisper.
“I don’t. I can’t.” The words are guttural, forced out between clenched teeth.
He breaks off with a snarl, and suddenly, his hands are on my thighs, lifting me, pinning me against the wet tile.
My legs wrap around his waist instinctively, and I feel him there, hard again, pressing against my entrance.
“I need you.” His forehead drops to mine, his breath ragged against my lips. “Emma, I need…”
“Yes.” I don’t even let him finish. I’m already pulling him closer, my heels digging into the small of his back. “Yes, take what you need.”
He drives into me in one stroke. “MINE.”
I cry out, the sound echoing off the tile, and he swallows it with his mouth.
This is nothing like before. In bed, he was intense but measured, always watching my reactions and checking that I was okay.
This is something else entirely. This is wild and desperate and completely unleashed.
He pounds into me against the wall, the water streaming over us, his hands gripping my thighs hard enough to bruise.
I cling to his shoulders and hold on, overwhelmed by the force of him, the size of him, the sounds he’s making against my throat.
Feeling bold, I find the scar again, and I press down hard.
He roars against my shoulder, teeth grazing my skin before he rears back. His hips stutter, his rhythm faltering, just for a second before he resumes driving in and out.
Something reckless seizes me. I lean forward and sink my teeth into his shoulder, right over the scar, biting down as hard as I can.
He comes apart, making that inhuman noise once more, making my core quiver around him, blown away by the intensity of whatever’s happening.
His whole body seizes, a hoarse shout tearing from his throat as he buries himself deep and pulses inside me. My own release barrels into me, unexpected and devastating, and I scream against his skin as the world whites out.
When I come back to myself, we’re both trembling. He’s still inside me, his forehead pressed to the tile beside my head, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
“What…” I manage, my voice wrecked. “What the hell was that?”
With a soft kiss to my lips, he eases out of me, lowering my feet carefully to the floor and keeping his hands on my waist until he’s sure I can stand.
He doesn’t answer for a long moment. When he finally pulls back to look at me, his eyes are brown again, but vulnerable in a way I’ve never seen from him.
“I don’t know how to explain.” His voice is hoarse. He reaches back, touching the scar on his shoulder, and I watch his throat work as he swallows. “But I think you’ve done something to me, Emma.”