Chapter 14 – Betsy
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
BETSY
Showering was difficult. I dropped the shower gel bottle three times, and having to pour the shampoo directly on my head with my one arm was harder than I thought it would be.
“Ahhhh, shit, shit!” I yelled as soap began to run down my forehead and into my eyes.
I quickly tried to stick my face under the running water to rinse it.
“Ah, fuck, it burns,” I curse with my eyes squeezed shut.
I step on the shower gel bottle I dropped earlier, only it rolls from under me, sending me flying backwards.
“FUUUUUCCCKK!” I scream, my arms and legs flailing as I land on the shower floor with a thud.
My already bruised and battered body screams in pain.
A loud crash sounds as Archer comes barrelling through the bathroom door, and as his eyes land on me on the floor, I squint my burning eyes open and look at him. “Help,” I mutter.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” He steps into the shower and bends down to scoop me up in his arm.
He places his hand under my knees and his other arm behind my back.
I bury my face in his chest, utterly mortified.
As he steps back out of the shower, him now soaking wet too, he places me on the edge of the unit and grabs a towel, wrapping it around me and protecting what little modesty I have left.
He reaches over into the shower and switches the shower off before turning his attention back to me.
He crouches down in front of me, his hand cupping my face as he looks into my sore red eyes.
I keep blinking, trying to ease the stinging.
“You should have just called me to help you,” he states frustratingly.
“I was naked in the shower. I didn’t want you seeing that,” I point out.
He looks up at my hair. “You’ve still got soap in your hair.”
“I know. I need to condition it, too,” I mutter, looking down at my lap, feeling embarrassed that he has just seen me naked in a mess on the bathroom floor.
“Let me help you,” he offers.
I chew on the inside of my cheek and give a subtle nod, giving him the okay.
Archer stands and walks back to the shower and turns it on.
He grabs the hem of his shirt and lifts it over his head, revealing his toned, tattooed body.
Even with soap in my eyes, I can’t help but look over his body.
He turns, catching me, and I quickly avert my eyes.
Pausing, I clear my throat. “You don’t need to get in the shower with me.”
“You don’t have a bath or a chair I could put in there or next to the sink to rinse your hair.
I’m already wet. I will keep my boxers on and stand behind you the entire time, looking at your hair only,” he assures me.
I look up at him, and I wish I hadn’t. He’s stood there in a pair of black fitted boxers, and his muscled body is toned with thick thighs.
As my eyes roam, I can’t help but notice his rather large bulge in his boxers.
My cheeks turn to molten lava, and I look away.
Shit!
“Like what you see, do ya?” he teases.
I ignore him and stand, even though the small movement pains me.
I drop the towel, and invoking my inner Mor, I walk past him and into the shower, keeping my head held high.
I fight the triumphant smile that wants to break out across my lips when I hear him suck in a sharp breath.
I stand under the warm spray, closing my eyes, feeling him get in behind me.
“Ready?” he asks, his voice coarse.
“Yes,” I say softly, but it comes out as barely a whisper.
I feel his hands on my scalp, and as his fingertips massage the shampoo into my hair, the feeling relaxes my entire body. I can’t help the moan that escapes me as his fingers caress me as he washes my hair.
“Lean back,” he orders, his voice a deep rasp.
I tilt my head back further as he rinses the shampoo from my hair, staying like that with my eyes closed. I hear him open up the bottle of conditioner, and after he applies it to my hair, I feel him lean in and sniff.
“Are you smelling my hair?” I ask, smiling.
“I am. I love how your hair smells,” he answers honestly, surprising me.
I swallow, feeling my heart beginning to beat faster. “You often smell my hair?” I dare to ask, not sure why I’m wanting him to say yes.
“Often,” he answers. I suck in a shuddery breath as his fingertips glide down from my hair, along my back. I shiver, even under the hot spray of the shower. “You have bruises,” he rasps as his fingers delicately dance over them. Goosebumps break out across my skin at his touch.
I swallow, unsure of what to say or do. The anxiety within me is screaming at me to run, but something else deep inside me doesn’t want to move.
If anything, I want to be closer to him.
I want to feel his touch, feel his body next to mine, feel his mouth next to the shell of my ear, have his breath dancing across my skin…
“Thank you for helping me,” I mutter, feeling my fear beginning to take over.
I step forward out of the shower and move to grab the towel, but Archer is there right behind me.
He snatches the towel from my hand, and I gasp, turning around to face him.
His eyes are heated as they roam freely over my naked body.
I stand there, frozen. “Archer,” I breathe.
He leans in, his mouth less than a millimetre from mine, as he places the towel over my shoulders. “Tell me to kiss you,” he breathes.
“I, I,” I stutter, feeling that familiar mixture of panic and arousal fighting in my body that only ever seems to happen with Archer.
A soft smile plays along his lips. “It’s okay,” he states softly. Leaning back slightly, he places a soft and affectionate kiss on my temple. “Let’s get you dressed,” he says before turning and walking out of the bathroom.
I’m still frozen to the spot. My heart is beating at lightning speed, along with my thoughts whirling along with it.
I sit there for a moment, thought after thought battling it out in my head. Finally, I decide I can’t sit and hide in the bathroom for much longer. I have to be brave and face him. Jesus, when did I become such a wimp? I’ve beaten men twice the size of him and made them cry, too.
I walk into my bedroom to see Archer standing there with a towel wrapped low around his waist. “I grabbed myself a towel out of the closet,” he states.
“Let’s get you dressed,” he says casually, like it’s something completely normal that we do every day.
I keep the towel wrapped around me, gripping onto it like a lifeline. “You tell me what you want help with.”
I nod, but as I open my mouth to form some words, nothing comes out. I just stand there opening and closing my mouth like a lifeless fish gasping for air.
Archer just smirks, the arrogant asshole. “Okay, how about I say what I’m about to do? You can say no, or if you can’t form the words, then shake your head no,” he says as he drops to his knees in front of me, looking up through his thick black lashes.
I sigh and give him my best pissed-off glare.
Just tell him to get out. Tell him you don’t want him here.
Tell him you hate him, my mind screams at me.
Except if I say that, it wouldn’t be true, would it?
I wonder how it would feel to run my fingers through his dark hair.
Jesus, my mind is all over the place. Or maybe it’s my libido.
I haven’t seen to myself in a really long time.
I could, and my vibrator tonight could scratch that itch, then maybe I wouldn’t be so damn confused with how I feel for Archer.
I realise I’ve just been standing here staring down at Archer while I’ve been battling my internal thoughts. I don’t even know if he was speaking to me. I just zoned out.
“I’m going to help put your underwear on,” he states, and my cheeks immediately burn. Fuck, I blush like a fucking virgin.
Well, technically you are. You never gave it to them. They stole it, I think to myself.
I bite down on my bottom lip and give Archer the slightest nod to continue.
He holds out my black lace French panties.
I’m grateful he’s chosen this pair, as not only are they comfy, but they are also easy for me to remove myself.
I lift my right foot off the ground while placing my good hand on his shoulder to support myself.
He glides the soft lace over my foot and along my calf before I place my foot down and lift my left foot.
He does the same, gliding them slowly up my legs, the tips of his fingers grazing lightly along my skin, leaving a trail of burning heat in their wake.
He keeps his gaze on mine as his hands go higher and higher.
The towel that’s draped over my shoulder parts slightly, exposing a central line down my body between the curve of my breasts, my navel, and my centre.
I don’t move to cover up. I continue to bite down on my lip, my eyes on him, letting those pools of green consume me.
His gaze flickers to my body, to my most intimate part, as his hands release their hold on my underwear, but his hand stays there, squeezing my hip.
I suck in a sharp breath. The feel of his hands on me are electrifying my entire body.
He releases my hips, casting his gaze down to the ground as he collects my shorts and helps me step into them again.
This time he doesn’t caress my skin, nor does he take his time.
He pauses for a moment, just staring at the ground beside me, and I wonder what he’s doing.
“Are you okay?” I ask, my voice cracking slightly.
“I’m fine; I just need a minute,” he says, not looking at me. His voice is rough like sandpaper.
I place my hand on his shoulder. “Is there anything I can help with?” I ask softly.
“Fuck,” he breathes. He stands slowly, getting to his feet, and that’s when I notice it. More specifically, why he asked for a minute.
“Oh,” I breathe, staring at the towel-pitched tent.