Chapter Twenty-One #2
I stood frozen, my breath caught in my throat, my eyes squeezed shut now as he worked the soap into my skin.
Every nerve ending felt like it were on fire, hyperaware of every point of contact.
He moved lower, as his hands slid down to the small of my back, his thumbs pressed into the dimples there before continuing over the curve of my ass.
He didn’t linger. Didn’t squeeze or grope.
He just washed me as if I were a priceless sculpture he was cleaning, something precious that required his complete attention and care.
His hands moved to my hips, gripping them briefly before they slid down the backs of my thighs with long, sweeping motions, to my calves, circling my ankles.
The water cascaded over us both, rinsing away the soap in rivers of white foam that swirled down the drain at our feet.
“Lift your foot.”
I lifted my right foot, and he washed it with deliberate care.
Every toe, individually, methodically. The arch, as his thumbs pressed into my tender muscles.
The heel, as his fingers worked in slow circles.
Then the left, with the same meticulous attention.
When he was done, he stood slowly and turned me around to face him, his hands steady on my shoulders.
I kept my eyes down, and stared at his chest, as the water ran in rivulets over his skin, tracing the contours of his muscles, then disappeared into his dark hair below.
“Look at me.”
I lifted my eyes reluctantly, afraid of what I would see there.
His face was calm. Focused. Intense in a way that made my breath catch, like I was the only thing that mattered more than anything else in his world.
He poured more soap into his hands, and worked it into a lather between his palms, then started on my front.
My collarbones first, as his fingers traced the delicate bones.
My chest, as his hands spread warmth across my skin.
The swell of my breasts, as he cupped them and lifted them.
His hands moved over them with the same clinical precision, thorough and unhurried, his thumbs brushing over my nipples and down my torso as he washed away the dried remnants of his cum.
I bit my lip hard, trying not to react. I tried to stay still, but my nipples hardened traitorously under his touch as my body betrayed what I refused to acknowledge.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed. He noticed everything.
But he didn’t say anything, didn’t smirk or tease.
He just kept washing, his expression unchanged.
Down my stomach, his fingers splaying wide.
Over my hips, as he gripped them firmly.
Between my thighs, his touch became impossibly more intimate.
I gasped when his fingers brushed against my pussy, the sensation electric, as my body jerked involuntarily, and my hands flew up to grip his forearms for balance.
“Hold still,” he muttered.
I forced myself to stay still as he washed me there.
His touch was thorough. Invasive as he parted my folds, as his fingers slid over my clit, between my lips, making sure every inch of me was clean.
I was shaking again, but not from fear. From something else.
Something I didn’t want to name as he rinsed me off, the hot water washing away the soap, and then he turned me around again.
“Hands on the wall.”
I pressed my palms against the cool tile, and my heart pounded so hard I could hear it echoing in my ears.
The bathroom felt smaller somehow; the air was thick with steam.
He poured shampoo into his hands and then his hands were in my hair.
His fingers worked through the strands methodically, massaging my scalp in slow, deliberate circles, as he worked the lather from root to tip with practiced ease.
It felt... good. Too good.
Better than it had any right to feel.
The pressure of his fingers was firm but not rough, and sent tingles down my spine. The warmth of the water cascaded over me as the clean, fresh scent of the shampoo was overwhelming. My senses felt heightened, every touch amplified.
I felt my shoulders relax despite myself.
The tension I had been holding onto slowly melted away under his touch.
He rinsed my hair carefully, as he made sure no soap got in my eyes, then applied conditioner.
His fingers combed through my tangles with surprising gentleness, patient and unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world.
When he was done, he turned off the water abruptly.
The sudden silence was deafening as he stepped out of the shower without a word, and I heard him grab a towel from the rack.
I stood there, dripping, water pooling at my feet, my hands still pressed against the wall for support, not sure what to do or what came next.
“Come here.”
I turned and stepped out of the shower, as water streamed down my skin in rivulets.
He stood right there, waiting for me, holding a towel in his hands.
He wrapped it around me with surprising gentleness, and tucked it securely under my arms, and then grabbed another towel from the rack and started drying my hair.
His movements were efficient. Practiced.
Deliberate. Like he had done this a thousand times before.
Like this was second nature to him. When my hair was no longer dripping wet, reduced to just damp strands that clung to my neck and shoulders, he led me back into his bedroom and sat me down on the edge of his bed.
His hand was warm and steady on my elbow.
“Stay.”
The command was soft but firm. There was no room for argument in his voice.
I stayed.
He disappeared into the bathroom and came back a moment later with a hairbrush and a bottle of lotion.
I heard the soft pad of his footsteps on the carpet.
He stood behind me and started brushing my hair.
Slowly. Carefully. Methodically. Working through my tangles with a patience I didn’t expect from someone like him.
The brush moved through my hair in long, steady strokes, starting at the ends as he worked his way up to the roots, and I felt my eyes start to close.
My breathing slowed. The tension I had been carrying in my shoulders began to melt away.
No. Don’t relax. Don’t let your guard down.
But I couldn’t help it. The sensation was too soothing.
Too comforting. Too intoxicating. Every stroke of the brush through my hair felt like he was untangling not just the knots in my hair, but the knots in my mind, in my chest, in my very soul.
By the time he finished, my hair was soft and smooth, falling in damp waves down my back, each strand perfectly separated and gleaming in the low light.
He set the brush aside with a gentle click against the nightstand and picked up the lotion.
“Lie down.”
I hesitated, my heart suddenly pounding in my chest.
This felt like crossing some invisible line we had been dancing around all evening.
“Alexandra. Lie down.” His voice was firm but gentle, leaving no room for argument.
I lay on my stomach, my face turned to the side, my hands tucked under the pillow, as I gripped the soft fabric like an anchor.
I heard the cap of the lotion bottle open with a soft pop, heard him squeeze some into his hands, the sound of him rubbing his palms together to warm it, and then his hands were on me again.
Starting at my shoulders. He worked the lotion into my skin with slow, deliberate strokes, his fingers kneading my tight muscles in my neck and shoulders with just the right amount of pressure.
The scent of lavender and vanilla filled the air around me.
I bit back a moan, my teeth sinking into my lower lip.
Don’t. Don’t make a sound.
But it felt so fucking good. His hands moved down my spine, over my ribs, across the small of my back.
He took his time, and made sure every inch of my skin was covered, his touch firm and steady.
When he reached my ass, I tensed, every muscle in my body going rigid.
But he didn’t do anything inappropriate.
Just massaged the lotion into my skin with the same methodical precision he had used everywhere else, his hands moving over the curve of my cheeks, down the backs of my thighs as my body started to feel heavy.
Relaxed. Like I was sinking into a cloud of seduction.
No. This is wrong. He’s conditioning you. He’s grooming you. This is how it starts.
But the thought slipped away as his hands moved to my calves, my ankles, my feet.
He massaged each foot with the same meticulous care, as his thumbs pressed into my arches, working out knots I didn’t know I had.
The pressure was perfect—not too hard, not too soft.
Just right. When he was done with my legs, he tapped my hip twice.
“Turn over.”
I turned onto my back, my eyes half-closed, and my body felt like it was made of warm honey.
Everything felt distant. Hazy. He started on my arms, working the lotion into my skin from shoulder to fingertip, paying special attention to my wrists, my palms, and the webbing between my fingers.
Then my chest. My stomach. My hips. Each touch deliberate, unhurried.
When his hands moved between my thighs, I didn’t tense this time.
I just let it happen.
I didn’t fight him. I didn’t pull away. I didn’t tell him to stop as his fingers worked the lotion into my inner thighs, his touch careful and deliberate.
Methodical. He took his time, making sure every inch of skin was covered, his palms warm and firm against my flesh.
He didn’t touch my pussy. Didn’t tease me.
Didn’t let his fingers drift higher or linger too long in any one place.
He just made sure my skin was soft and smooth, hydrated and cared for.