16. The Bathtub #3
She sat on the edge of the tub, her legs crossed, and reached for the washcloth draped over the faucet.
She soaked it in the hot water, wrung it once, and pressed it to his shoulder.
She dragged it slowly across his collarbone, over the swell of his chest, down the center of his stomach.
His eyes tracked her hand.“You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly.
“I want to.”She washed him in slow, deliberate strokes.
Across his chest, where a raised pink line sat just below his left pectoral.
She’d seen that one before, the night they’d spent together in the mansion, when she’d pressed her lips to it without asking and he’d gone very still beneath her.
She washed around it now, careful.Down his arms, over the split knuckles.
He hissed when the cloth passed over the raw skin there, and she gentled her touch, cleaning the dried blood away until the wounds looked fresh and angry but clean.She moved to his other arm, and that’s when she found it.
A round, puckered scar on the outside of his upper arm, just above the elbow.
Smaller than the one on his chest but unmistakable.
Her hand stopped.“Another bullet?”His eyes opened.
He looked at where her fingers were resting, then at her face.She let the washcloth drift in the water and pressed her fingertip to the scar.
Traced the raised edge of it in a slow circle.
She felt the muscle underneath tighten in response.His smile disappeared.
The easy thing he did, the deflection, the charm—it all dropped away like a trapdoor opening.
For one second, she saw something raw behind his eyes.
Something that looked like the beginning of a confession.
His mouth opened.She stood and pulled her shirt over her head.
His eyes changed. She unhooked her bra and let it fall.
Unbuttoned her jeans, pushed them down, stepped out of them.
Her underwear last, and then she was standing above him in nothing but the bathroom light and the steam.
“Move forward,” she said.He did, shifting his body forward in the tub, his knees bending, making room.
She stepped in behind him, the water rising as she lowered herself in.
The heat enveloped her and she let out a breath she’d been holding longer than she realized.
She settled with her back against the curved end of the tub, her legs on either side of him, and pulled him back against her chest.He resisted for a second—she felt it in the tension of his spine, the way his shoulders locked.
Then he let go. He let himself sink back against her, his head resting on her shoulder, his weight settling into her.
His bruised ribs expanded against her inner thighs with each breath.She wrapped her arms around him from behind, one hand flat on his chest, the other resting on his stomach.
She could feel his heartbeat under her palm, steady and strong despite everything.
The water lapped gently around them.“This is the second time you’ve taken care of me,” he murmured. “You keep needing to be taken care of.”
“I don’t need anything.”
“Then why did you let me?”
He didn’t answer. His hand came to rest on top of hers where it lay on his chest. His thumb traced slow lines across her knuckles. The steam wrapped around them both, and the bathroom felt smaller, warmer, like the world outside the tub had stopped existing.
She pressed her lips to the back of his neck. He smelled like cedar and sweat and something metallic that might have been blood. She kissed the spot below his ear, and she felt his breath catch.Camila rested against Chris, her head tucked beneath his chin.His arms surrounded her“Camila.”
“What.”
“If you keep doing that—”
“What?”She kissed his neck again, slower this time, her mouth open against his skin.
She felt him swallow. Her hand on his chest slid lower, across the flat plane of his stomach, through the trail of hair below his navel.
She stopped just above the waterline.“Tell me to stop,” she said.He didn’t.Her hand moved lower beneath the water.
Her fingers wrapped around him, and he was already hard, thick and heavy in her grip.
He exhaled sharply, his head turning against her shoulder, his mouth finding the curve of her neck.
He kissed her there, his lips pressing hard against her pulse point.She stroked him slowly.
The water made everything slick, friction reduced to a gentle glide.
She moved her hand in a long, unhurried rhythm, feeling him grow even harder in her grip.
His hips shifted, barely, a small involuntary movement that made the water ripple.
“Is this okay?” she asked against his ear. “Your ribs—”
“My ribs are fine.”She smiled against his skin and tightened her grip slightly, twisting her wrist on the upstroke the way she’d learned he liked.
He groaned, low in his chest, and the vibration traveled through his back into her body.His hand reached back, finding her thigh beneath the water.
His fingers dug into her flesh, pulling her leg tighter against his side.
She kept her rhythm steady, her thumb circling the head of him on each upstroke, and she could feel him getting closer in the way his breathing changed, the way his stomach tightened under her other hand.Then he pulled away from her.She made a sound of protest, but he was already turning in the tub, water sloshing over the rim, and then he was facing her, on his knees between her legs, and his mouth was on hers.The kiss was deep and hungry.
His tongue slid against hers and she tasted the faint bitterness of exhaustion on him.
His hands found her waist, gripping her slick skin, pulling her closer.
She could feel him hard against her thigh, the heat of him even through the bathwater.His mouth moved to her neck, then lower, his lips tracing the line of her collarbone.
His tongue found the hollow of her throat and she arched into him, her hands sliding up his wet back, her fingers catching on the scars she couldn’t see but could feel.
The bullet wound. The long one across his shoulder blade.
Others she didn’t have names for.He cupped her breasts in both hands, his thumbs passing over her nipples, and she bit her lip against the sound that rose in her throat.
He bent his head and took one in his mouth, his tongue circling slowly, and she grabbed the back of his head, fingers threading through his wet hair. “Chris—”
He switched to the other side, his teeth grazing her gently, and her hips lifted toward him involuntarily. The water splashed against the sides of the tub. She could feel the heat building between her legs, separate from the heat of the bath, sharper and more specific.
He pulled back and looked at her. His eyes were dark, his pupils blown wide. Water ran down his face, dripped from his jaw onto her chest. The bruise on his cheek looked worse in this light, but the way he was looking at her made it impossible to think about that.