Chapter 18 #2
He watches me for a long moment, then exhales, a quiet breath that feels heavier than it should. “I’m taking you back to my place,” he says. “You need a shower, food, and sleep. I’ll get you home in the morning before you have to open the shop.”
I don’t have the strength to argue, even if I wanted to. And maybe I don’t want to. The idea of being alone tonight feels wrong. I don’t want to overthink or worry that I did something that displeased him.
I just want to curl up and let him do everything. Which pretty much slays the feminist in me.
I’ll revive her in the morning.
Zach shifts the car into gear, his fingers brushing my knee in passing, and the car rolls forward, the night swallowing us whole.
It takes less than ten minutes along the empty roads to drive to the hotel.
Instead of parking in the main lot, he follows a smaller driveway, around the back, where the door to his ground floor apartment is, pulling into a space next to his sleek, dark car.
“How did you get to the woods?” I ask, finally finding my voice. I have the urge to know everything. How he planned it, how he was feeling.
Does he have the same, insistent tug toward me like I do to him? Like we bonded out there somehow?
His lips curl but he shakes his head. “I could tell you everything, but wouldn’t that ruin it?”
I guess he’s right. I smile softly, too.
Before I can think of any more questions, he climbs out of the car and walks around to my side, helping me out. Just like at the forest, he lifts me easily in his arms, and I’m struck by just how unafraid he is.
“Won’t people talk if they see us?” I ask. Because I know I look like a mess. Dress torn to pieces, mud and scratches all over my body. Like a prom date gone horribly wrong.
He glances toward the back entrance, his face easy in a quiet way that tells me he’s already thought about this. “No one else uses this side of the hotel,” he says. “And even if they do, let them.”
The air inside his apartment smells faintly of cedar and clean linen, like he’s changed his sheets and cleaned up to have me here. He kicks the door shut behind him, then slides off his muddy shoes and carries me past the low light of the hallway toward his bedroom.
“You don’t have to do this,” I whisper, though the protest sounds weak even to my own ears.
“Yeah,” he says roughly. “I do.” He sets me down on the side of the bed, not caring that I’m probably messing up his thousand thread count sheets, then hunkers down in front of me like a doctor assessing a patient.
His hands trace my hair, pulling out twigs. Then they run over my face, my neck, like he’s making sure I’m not hurt.
“I’m fine,” I tell him. “Apart from a little dirt.”
And isn’t that the understatement? Dust and earth clings to my skin.
“Then let’s get you cleaned up.”
Before I can ask what he’s doing, he slides his hands under my knees and lifts me again.
The motion is effortless, the heat of his body seeping into mine.
He carries me through another doorway, into a bathroom filled with soft light and marble tiles.
The scent of cedar is stronger here, mixed with soap and clean cotton.
“Zach—”
“Shh.” His voice is rough but calm. He sets me down on the floor, his hands steady as he reaches for the straps of my ruined dress. “Let me take care of you.”
He slides the torn silk down slowly, like he’s worried he’s going to hurt me. The fabric pools at my waist, cool against overheated skin, before falling to the floor.
“Christ, you’re perfect,” he mutters as he takes in my naked body.
“I’m a mess,” I say, but his words still warm me.
“No, you’re magnificent.” He swallows hard. “But you need to take a shower.”
“I’m not sure I can stand up long enough,” I say, suddenly aware of just how exhausted I am.
He nods, then pulls his t-shirt off. “I’ll hold you,” he says.
For a moment I forget how to breathe. His chest is broad and solid, all muscle and heat, the kind of strength that’s earned rather than sculpted.
A faint dusting of dark hair trails down his abs, tapering to the waistband of his jeans. There’s a small scar high on his left pec, pale against sun-warmed skin, and another just beneath his ribs.
And like me, he has scratches. Some from my nails, some from the woods. I reach out to touch one.
“Does it hurt?” I ask, tracing a pinkish red welt.
“Not a fucking bit.” His eyes are still on mine as he unbuckles his belt, taking his pants down, followed by his shorts.
“Come on,” he murmurs, offering his hand. “It’ll be warm by now.”
Steam curls around us as he leads me into the shower. The heat hits my skin first, then the water, washing away the leaves and dirt that still cling to me. I shiver, but his hand finds my waist, steadying me, grounding me.
“Easy,” he murmurs. His voice is softer, all the rough edges gone.
He reaches for the soap, lathering it between his palms until the scent of cedar and clean linen fills the air. Then his hands find my shoulders, sliding over my skin in slow, measured circles. His touch is gentle, deliberate, like I’m something precious.
The water runs over us, his fingers gliding down my arms, my back, over the curve of my hip. It hits me that it’s the first time he’s touched me like this. When I’m naked and exposed and we’re alone in a room.
And yet it feels like he already knows every line of my body.
He soaps my thighs and I let out a soft groan. There are bruises there, and he’s so gentle with them, yet I feel the fire light up in me again.
“Good girl,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to the side of my head. “You did so well tonight.”
The words make my chest tighten. I close my eyes and lean into him, letting his warmth sink into me.
He pours shampoo in his palm, then runs it through my hair, his fingers slow and careful along my scalp. His lips brush mine, like he can’t bear not to kiss me.
I tilt my face up and kiss him back, slow and searching. The kiss isn’t hungry the way it was before. It’s soft, almost sleepy, like we’re both rediscovering what quiet feels like. His hand slides to the back of my neck, holding me there, the water running over us as our lips move together.
When he finally pulls back, there’s a faint smile curving his mouth. “You’re tired,” he says.
“Not that tired,” I murmur. My voice is steadier now, and it surprises me. I feel the strength coming back to my limbs, like a flower blooming into life.
He rinses the shampoo from my hair, then slides conditioner through it, his fingers raking through my strands to deliver it evenly.
“You’ve done this before,” I say, not liking the way my stomach tightens at that thought.
“I have two younger sisters,” he murmurs. “I can wash hair like a pro.”
When it’s all rinsed out, I look up at him.
God, he’s beautiful. Water drips from his lashes, tracing paths down his cheeks, over the curve of his jaw, along the column of his throat.
His hair is soaked, making it darker with a slight curl at the edges.
The light catches on his skin, on the faint pink marks I left across his shoulders, and something inside of me twists.
He tilts his head, noticing the way I’m staring. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say, though my voice wavers. “You’re… unfairly good-looking.”
He huffs out a laugh, low and warm. “Unfairly?”
“Completely,” I tell him. “It’s rude, actually.”
He steps closer, the corners of his mouth softening. “You think I’m rude?”
I smile, running a fingertip down the center of his chest, watching the water bead and follow the line.
“What you did to me in the forest was rude,” I say, and his eyes flash with the memory of it. God, I can still feel him all over me. Still feel the way he tightened and exploded inside of me.
I shift my legs, desire blooming between them.
And like he can read my thoughts, a slow smile spreads across his mouth. “Whatever you’ve got brewing in that pretty head of yours, stop it. You’re going to eat, drink, and go to bed.”
“God, you’re bossy,” I murmur, though the word comes out softer than I intend.
“I’m practical,” he corrects, reaching past me to shut off the water.
He takes a towel from the rack and rubs gently, his touch careful where the terry brushes against my bruises. Then he crouches a little, wrapping the towel’s edge around my hair, squeezing out the water with slow, deliberate motions.
“You’re shaking,” he says quietly. And I realize I am. Shivering, really, even though it’s stupidly warm in here.
“Maybe that’s because somebody chased me through a forest.”
He grabs a robe from the hook on the bathroom door and wraps it around me. It’s so huge I must look like an Ewok. He has to wrap the belt around my waist twice to stop the ends from hitting the floor.
When he’s satisfied that I’m warm enough, he pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, his expression unreadable for a beat.
“Let me be bossy for a bit longer,” he says. It’s somewhere between a command and a plea.
I nod before I can stop myself. There’s something in his expression that melts every last ounce of resistance. He wants control, but not for power. For comfort. For care.
And maybe I want that too.
He steps past me to grab another towel, wrapping it around his own hips. The muscles in his back move as he bends, the faint marks from branches and my nails catching the light. When he straightens, he’s all calm efficiency again, though the edge in his eyes hasn’t completely gone.
“I’ll make you something to eat,” he says, turning toward the door. “Then bed. And no arguments.”
I can’t help the small smile that tugs at my lips. “You do realize that sounds a lot like an order?”
He glances over his shoulder, his mouth curling with something that feels both tender and dangerous. “It is.”
And I find that I don’t mind it at all.