Chapter 11 #2
His chest was so tight that breath felt like a memory.
“Yes,” he managed, hoarse, reverent. “Please. Merge your power with mine.”
Her face crumpled, and then she leaned in, fierce and full of wonder.
“You beautiful, fucking man,” she murmured, almost feral.
She buried her face in his hair, fingers sliding through the dark strands, cradling his skull with a tenderness that roared. She breathed him in, deep, long, like she was taking him into her lungs and refusing to let go.
The heat of her breath?
It came like wind. Like storm.
Suffusing him with the energy of gusts and tempests.
Of lightning and flood.
Of a soul finally finding its rhythm in the sacred silence of his own name.
The steam curled around them like breath from the earth itself.
He turned his head, found her eager mouth, and wrapped his arms around her, drawing her to him.
Immobilized by the onslaught of need, he wanted to crush her but was mindful of her injured body.
He shouldn’t be doing this, but he was helpless against the want in him.
The way his skin craved her like one huge ache that wouldn’t let go.
She lifted herself higher and opened her mouth.
Needing the heat of her, he shuddered, grinding his mouth against hers.
Body to body, heat to heat, he took her mouth, and Bailee yielded everything to him.
He had never known such raw, urgent hunger, and she gave him everything she had, knowing he wouldn’t let her fall.
He gentled his mouth, tamped down his desire. It was time to get her in the bath. Those kids would be back soon, and he would have to restrain himself again.
He broke the kiss, and she dropped her forehead against his mouth.
“Before we get in, can you help with this hair?” she asked. “I couldn’t even brush or braid it.”
“Of course,” he whispered and let her go. “Comb?”
“In the drawer of the vanity. He retrieved it. “Sit,” he said. Before he drew the comb through, he worked at the tangles. “I hate being helpless,” she whispered.
“I get that. Us special forces guys hate it even more.”
“So, what’s up with the backup teenagers? You know I could take them even with a bum wrist.”
He smiled, the laughter warm, filling his chest. “I have no doubt.”
“One of them is your brother, isn’t he?”
“Yes, that Nathaniel.”
“Or as redhead number one said, Than.”
Bear chuckled again. “He and Kavanaugh are going to be lethal together.” He explained how he’d met Flynn, how he ended up bringing Than to San Diego.
“It doesn’t surprise me they want you for a teacher. Training them. That’s a lot of responsibility.”
“I know. I believe in them…they taught me how to speak, Bailee. I owe them. But I’m not going easy on them.”
“That doesn’t surprise me either. You guys are freaking brutal, a well-earned Trident.”
He finished with most of the matting, now able to draw the comb through.
She sighed softly. “Thank you for coming.”
“Nothing could keep me away from you…” His throat tightened. “I thought…I can’t lose you, Bailee.”
She turned. “I know that feeling.”
He reached for the release of the sling. “The wrist?”
“I have a waterproof splint.” She rose and went back to the vanity and pulled out a black swathe of material. “I’m afraid I need more help.”
He rose, set the comb onto the vanity until after the bath, and took off her hard brace and slipped on the stretchy black one.
Bailee stepped toward the tub first, and Bear helped her with a quiet steadiness that felt like reverence.
His hands were sure, not trembling now but slow.
Always slow. He didn’t rush her. He waited for her cues.
Slid the straps from her shoulders, eased fabric down over bandages and bruises, revealing more skin, more of her, inch by inch.
She didn’t flinch.
Not when he saw the full stretch of discoloration across her chest where the harness had held her. Not when his hands skimmed her ribs. Not even when she stood before him fully bare, her arms bruised where her pain lives, but her chin high and her gaze locked on him.
She was still Bailee Thunderhawk.
Still fire.
Still his.
He slipped out of his remaining clothes, eyes never leaving hers. There was no shame between them now. Only need.
She stepped into the tub with a soft hiss at the heat, lowering herself slowly until the water enveloped her. It rose up to her collarbones, glinting off her skin, and the scent of lavender and eucalyptus filled the air, clean, warm, elemental.
Bear followed, silent.
The water wrapped around him as he eased in behind her.
She leaned forward so he could settle, and then she came back, gently, between his legs, pressing against his erection, and it took a moment for him to absorb the exquisite pressure of her backside, and her spine along his chest. He wrapped his arms around her like he was meant to hold her this way.
Her head fell back against his shoulder, and she sighed.
That single sound nearly undid him.
He reached for a soft cloth, soaked it, and began to wash her. First her neck. Then her shoulders. Down each arm, his touch lingering, reverent. She hummed low in her throat when he reached her back, when he smoothed water over the bruises that still bloomed along her ribcage like shadowed petals.
“You’re so quiet,” she whispered.
“I’m trying not to cry,” he said against her temple.
She turned slightly, just enough to press a kiss there. Then another against the hollow of his throat. Another to the scar over his heart.
“You don’t have to hold anything in with me,” she said. “Not anymore.”
He didn’t respond with words. Just with his mouth.
He kissed her shoulder. Her jaw. The spot just beneath her ear.
Kisses that weren’t meant to lead anywhere. Just be. Just witness. Just stay.
Then, wordlessly, he shifted her weight with care and leaned her back.
One arm cradled her nape, the other steadied her body as she tilted. Her arms reached behind, bracing on the tops of his thighs. Trusting him to hold her. Trusting the water to catch what he couldn't.
Slowly, he lowered her head into the warmth, wetting her hair. It floated for a moment, ink black silk curling like smoke across the surface, before sinking in ribbons.
He sat up slightly, drawing her back toward him, her eyes fluttering closed as he reached for the shampoo.
Lather bloomed beneath his fingers, his touch gentle, reverent. He massaged her scalp in slow, deep strokes, working the lavender and mint into her hair until the scent bloomed around them. It was clean and wild and sweet, like open prairie wind tangled with sage and heat.
He breathed it in, all the way down.
It felt like home.
She sighed, long and low, and he felt it through his chest.
He rinsed her slowly, carefully. Not a drop touched her face. Then came the conditioner, thicker, richer, smoothed into her hair with the same unhurried hands. She didn’t speak, didn’t move, only leaned into him. Let him do this. Let him take care of her.
When he finished, she turned her head slightly and pressed a kiss just above his wrist.
Then, without a word, she reached up and sank her fingers into his hair.
“I wish I could reciprocate…” Her voice was soft, almost wistful. She glanced at her wrist and a warm smile curved her mouth. “Raincheck?”
He smirked, the corner of his mouth kicking up with quiet amusement. “So…a next time, huh?” He played with a long strand of her hair. “You poking the bear?”
She laughed, low and warm, the sound sinking right into his bones. Her fingers slid into his hair, tugging gently. “Yes. So no hibernating.”
He caught the back of her head, his heart thickening at the sheer rightness of this…her. This version of Bailee that was teasing, open, lit from the inside. He held her there for a moment, just breathing her in.
Then he kissed her because he had to. No power on earth could’ve stopped him. She broke the kiss with a smile against his mouth. With her good hand, she shoved his head under the water.
He held his breath as the warmth sealed over him, steam and silence surrounding his skin. For a moment, it was like floating inside her laughter, her strength, her forgiveness.
When he surfaced, gasping, water slicking down his face, she was already there.
Her hand threaded through his dark strands, slow and sure, massaging with gentle pressure as if she were memorizing his scalp, mapping him through touch alone.
He let her. He kept letting her, even as he reached for the shampoo and washed his own hair, her fingers never truly leaving him.
“Time for a rinse,” he murmured, voice husky with water and want.
She turned her back to him in silent trust, her body pressing into the cradle of his thighs.
He gathered the water in his palms and poured it over her hair, again and again, until the conditioner rinsed clean, her breath soft against the surface, her spine still brushing his chest.
Then twisting, she faced him again, this time straddling his lap, knees sinking into the warmth. The water lapped between them, soft and rhythmic, as she reached for the cloth he’d set on the lip of the tub.
“My turn,” she murmured. Her hands were gentle. Certain. She washed him the way he had washed her, with care. With memory. With awe.
She found every scar. Every plane of muscle. She kissed his shoulder, his chest, the center of his sternum. Not to arouse. To honor.
“You are so beautiful,” she whispered.
He leaned forward, cupped her face in both hands, and kissed her.
This time there was no hunger behind it.
Only healing.
A merging.
A vow.
She kissed him back with everything she had, the tears she hadn’t cried slipping silently between their mouths.
He held her. Held her like he never planned to let go.
With her good hand, she reached for him. Slow. Sure. A breath of decision. She slipped her fingers around his, guided his palm to her breast, holding it there like an offering. “I don’t want to wait another moment to have you, Dakota,” she whispered.