CHAPTER NINE Hands That Know #2
Jude looked at the chair, then at Gideon’s knees.
“I have a better arrangement.”
He sat on the floor between Gideon’s spread legs.
Gideon went still.
Jude leaned back against the edge of the chair and tilted his face upward.
“You trust me with a blade at your throat?” Gideon asked.
“You have had a gun near every other part of me.”
“That is not an answer.”
Jude met his gaze.
“Yes.”
The word carried no humor.
Gideon wrapped a towel around Jude’s shoulders.
He dipped the brush into the lather and painted soap over Jude’s jaw, cheeks, and throat. The brush moved in slow circles, softening the coarse hair.
Jude closed his eyes.
Gideon studied the face beneath his hand.
The fading bruise.
The scar through the eyebrow.
The mouth he had kissed hard enough to reopen.
He lifted the razor.
“Head back.”
Jude obeyed.
The position exposed his throat completely.
Gideon placed his left hand beneath Jude’s jaw. His thumb stretched the skin while the blade approached.
Jude’s pulse beat against Gideon’s palm.
“Do not swallow,” Gideon said.
“Will you punish me?”
“I’ll cut you.”
“Less romantic.”
The razor touched his cheek.
Gideon drew it downward.
One clean path appeared through the lather.
Jude remained perfectly still.
Gideon rinsed the blade and repeated the stroke. He worked with absolute concentration, guiding the steel along Jude’s jaw.
Every movement required trust from both men.
Jude trusted Gideon not to cut.
Gideon trusted Jude not to move.
The vulnerability felt more intimate than disarming him.
At Jude’s throat, Gideon stopped.
“Lift your chin.”
Jude did.
Gideon spread his hand across Jude’s lower jaw. His fingers curved around the back of Jude’s neck, holding the head at precisely the angle he needed.
The blade traveled over the pulse.
Jude’s breathing slowed.
“Afraid?” Gideon asked.
“No.”
“You should be.”
“Of you?”
The question entered the quiet room.
Gideon lowered the blade.
“No,” he said.
Jude opened his eyes.
Gideon finished shaving him.
He wiped away the remaining soap and ran his fingertips across Jude’s jaw, checking for roughness. Freshly shaved skin changed him, exposing the clean lines hidden beneath the beard.
Jude turned his face into Gideon’s hand.
“Well?” he asked.
Gideon bent and kissed his smooth cheek.
“I approve.”
“You missed.”
Jude turned farther.
Gideon kissed his mouth.
The razor remained open in Gideon’s right hand. Jude’s throat rested inside his left.
Neither forgot.
The kiss stayed gentle.
When it ended, Gideon closed the blade and returned it to Noah’s case.
Jude remained between his knees.
He placed one hand on Gideon’s thigh.
“Your turn.”
“I have a knife.”
“That explains several things about your face.”
Gideon allowed Jude to trim his beard but refused a complete shave. Jude worked standing between his knees, one hand at Gideon’s jaw and the razor moving slowly across his cheeks.
Gideon understood the trust only when his own throat became exposed.
The blade passed over it.
Jude’s fingers rested against his pulse.
“You’re staring,” Jude said.
“I am monitoring your technique.”
“Liar.”
Gideon did not look away.
The bath began with three iron kettles, a tin tub, and an argument.
“You are not filling that alone,” Gideon said.
“You chopped wood with stitches.”
“I adjusted my stance.”
“And I can carry water with cracked ribs.”
“You cannot lie convincingly while wincing.”
Jude picked up the buckets. “Then stop watching.”
Gideon took one from him.
They filled the tub together.
Late sunlight entered the bedroom in broad golden bands. Jude moved the tub beside the window where the breeze could carry away steam. He added the final kettle and tested the water with his hand.
“Too hot?” Gideon asked.
“Only if you intend to wear clothes.”
Jude undressed without hurry.
He removed his shirt first, then boots and trousers. Daylight revealed him without the softening protection of fire or night. Every scar remained visible. So did every moment of awareness passing between them.
Gideon watched.
Jude allowed it.
He stepped into the tub and lowered himself into the water with a long breath. The tub was large enough for one man comfortably.
Perhaps two without comfort.
Jude leaned back and closed his eyes.
Gideon remained beside the window.
“You joining me?” Jude asked.
“I had not assumed.”
“No chains.”
“No storm.”
“No necessity.”
Gideon looked at him.
Jude extended one wet hand.
“Choice,” he said.
Gideon took it.
He undressed.
For the first time, he did not turn away.
Coat, vest, shirt, boots, trousers, underclothes—each piece removed in full daylight while Jude watched from the bath.
Gideon felt exposed beyond nakedness.
His body bore the record of every year he had survived. Scars crossed his chest, shoulder, stomach, side, and thigh. He had never allowed another man to see all of them in unforgiving daylight.
Samuel had known some.
No one had known every mark.
Jude’s gaze moved over him without pity.
Gideon stopped beside the tub.
“No man has seen me like this.”
Jude looked up. “Naked?”
“All of me.”
Something in Jude’s expression softened.
He did not offer reassurance.
He reached out again.
Gideon took his hand and stepped into the water.
There was no graceful method.
His knee struck the tub. Water spilled over the edge. Jude shifted, and Gideon’s injured side protested when he lowered himself.
By the time both men settled, Jude was laughing.
“This was your idea,” Gideon said.
“My ideas are often better before you enter them.”
Gideon sat with his back against one end. Jude faced him, legs crowded along his, knees resting outside Gideon’s hips.
Water covered them to the waist.
No darkness.
No restraint.
No danger creating an excuse.
Jude placed both hands on Gideon’s chest.
“May I?”
“Yes.”
He explored every scar.
Not examining.
Not repairing.
His fingers followed the lance mark across Gideon’s shoulder, the bullet wound beneath his ribs, and the saber lines along his stomach. He touched unmarked skin with equal attention, refusing to divide Gideon into damage and everything else.
Gideon’s breathing deepened.
Jude moved closer through the water.
He kissed the scar below Gideon’s collarbone.
Then the center of his chest.
Then the old wound at his side.
Gideon’s hands closed around the edges of the tub.
“Do you want me to stop?” Jude asked.
“No.”
“Do you want to touch me?”
“Yes.”
“Then do it.”
Gideon placed his hands at Jude’s waist.
Jude straddled him.
Water rose and spilled onto the floor.
Their bodies came together.
Jude’s hands settled on Gideon’s shoulders. Gideon’s moved over Jude’s back, tracing the scars he had washed at the hidden spring.
Jude kissed him.
Slowly at first.
Then with increasing hunger.
Gideon tried to control the pace. Habit placed his hands at Jude’s hips, ready to guide.
Jude caught both wrists.
Gideon became still.
“No iron,” Jude said.
“I know.”
“I’m not holding you here.”
“I know that too.”
“May I keep your hands above the water?”
The request touched somewhere deep inside Gideon.
He considered it.
“Yes.”
Jude guided Gideon’s hands onto the edges of the tub.
“Do not move them unless you want to.”
“What do you want?”
“To watch you stop watching everything else.”
Jude kissed him again.
He took control without force.
His mouth moved along Gideon’s jaw and throat. His hands traveled over Gideon’s chest and down his sides. Each touch asked a question through pressure and pause.
Gideon answered.
Yes.
There.
Again.
Slower.
Jude obeyed every word.
The room narrowed to water, sunlight, skin, and Jude’s hands.
Gideon surrendered by degrees.
First the need to direct.
Then the need to anticipate.
Finally the vigilance that kept part of him standing outside every intimate moment, armed and waiting for consequence.
He let Jude see him respond.
Let his head fall back.
Let sound escape.
Let desire move openly across his body without disguising it as duty.
Jude watched everything.
Not with triumph.
With wonder.
“Still with me?” Jude asked.
Gideon opened his eyes.
“Yes.”
“What do you want?”
“You.”
“How?”
“However you choose to give yourself.”
Jude’s expression changed.
He took Gideon’s face between both hands.
“Then come out of the water.”
They moved to the bed wet and laughing.
The mattress darkened beneath their bodies. Gideon began to apologize for the floor, the blanket, the amount of water they had displaced.
Jude silenced him with a kiss.
This time Jude remained above him.
He set the pace.
Gideon allowed it.
Their second complete joining held none of the first night’s uncertainty and none of the canyon’s desperation. It was slower, more exposed, and more demanding because neither man could blame danger for wanting it.
Jude touched every scar.
With fingertips.
With palms.
With his mouth.
When Gideon tensed, Jude asked whether the memory hurt or the touch did.
“Memory,” Gideon answered once.
Jude kissed the scar again.
“Now?”
“Touch.”
“Good?”
“Yes.”
Nothing remained hidden.
Jude guided Gideon’s hands when he wanted them. Moved them when pressure threatened his healing ribs. Held Gideon’s gaze through each escalation.
“What remains off-limits?” Jude asked.
Gideon breathed beneath him.
“Restraints.”
“Any restraint?”
“Iron. Rope. Anything I cannot end myself.”
Jude nodded. “Agreed.”
“You?”
“My wrists.”
“Always?”
“Ask first. Never during a nightmare. Never from behind.”
“Agreed.”