Chapter 21
I trust You
Leni
I pull away from him, enough to look up at his face. There’s warmth in his eyes, but he’s still standing in front of me, looking lost. Stuck in a past he doesn’t think he deserves to leave behind.
“Come on.” I pop the button on his Wranglers and slip my thumbs into the sides. “The water’s hot now.”
“I got it.” He pulls my hands away and steps back from me, shucking his jeans and boxers off in one go before stepping into the shower. If he thinks I’m going to let him disappear, he’s got another thing coming.
Stripping out of my clothes, I step into the shower behind him. His back is to me when I get in, but I can see the jerky motions as he washes his hands. Scrubbing them, like he’s trying to scrub away years of dirt and grime.
“Let me help you,” I whisper.
Let me in. I want to scream.
Instead, I grab his shoulder and turn him around toward me, pushing him back under the spray as I take the soap from his hands.
I start to knead it, gently scrubbing every crack and groove, soothing my fingers over his calluses.
His head drops, water beating against the back of his neck as his chest rises and falls in long, heavy breaths.
When his hands are clean, I travel up his wrists, soaping his arms, then his shoulders, and down his chest. He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel him watching me. The weight of his gaze makes my skin itch. I’m washing every square inch of his body, and somehow, I’m the one who feels exposed.
I drop to my knees in front of him, lathering the soap up his legs.
My hands shake as they go. The silence feels like a weighted blanket, one that’s filled with yearning and tension and all the words we haven’t said.
I glance up at him through my lashes, and the look on his face steals my breath away.
There’s a fire in his eyes, lust and longing etched into every taut line of his face.
His chest is heaving with every breath, and still, he doesn’t speak to me.
It would be so easy to reach forward and take his cock in my hand, to stroke his rock-hard erection that’s practically reaching for me.
The things I would do to that dick with my mouth, I don’t think I’d even be able to take him fully, not in my mouth at least.
This isn’t about sex, though; this is about making sure Clay knows he’s not alone. That he is not the product of his circumstances, and I am here for him.
I stand, nudging him back under the spray so he can rinse the soap off.
Turning to the side, I grab his shampoo and squeeze a bit into my palms. He leans forward, letting the water beat down on his shoulders.
I sink my fingers deep into his hair and begin to massage his scalp, making sure I don’t miss a single curl.
A guttural moan comes from him, so I take that as a sign to keep going. I scrub until my fingers ache, and I worry he’s going to get a crick in his neck from leaning forward for so long. “You can rinse,” I say, my voice coming out a bit hoarse.
My hands drop, and I suddenly feel awkward without something to do with them.
He can either read the awkwardness I’m feeling, or he doesn’t want me to stop touching him because he grabs my hands and puts them on either side of his ribs, before tossing his head back to rinse out his hair.
I move closer, resting my head on his chest as my arms snake around him.
Clay moves a leg around mine, pivoting us so that I’m the one under the water now. Leaving my arms around his waist, he tips my head back before he runs his fingers through my waves, separating the layers to get them wet.
He pauses for a second, looking at the hair products I have lined up along the shelf.
“The pink one,” I say, still not wanting to let go of him.
He squeezes a generous portion into his palm before lathering it between his hands.
His fingers begin to rub the shampoo in, returning the scalp massage tenfold.
My eyes flutter closed as I lean into his strong hands. God, this feels so damn good.
“Which one’s next?” Clay’s voice startles me a little. It’s the first time he’s spoken since we stepped into the shower, and I don’t expect all the gravel it’s laced with.
“Blue bottle.” I point at the smaller bottle of conditioner on the shelf. “It only goes on the ends.”
“Copy.” He gives me a small smile that heats my core, fire lancing through my bloodstream.
Yeah, he’s going to be the death of me. Once he’s done working the conditioner into my hair, he washes my body.
When he gets to his knees to soap my legs, I nearly fall to the floor with him.
His hands steady at my hips, a knowing smirk tilting the corners of his mouth.
While he’s washing my legs, he peppers my abdomen with kisses.
They’re soft and sweet, with no bite or urgency to them.
It’s almost lazy, the way he gently presses his lips to my skin.
After a slow, torturous cleaning between my legs and backside, Clay stands and nudges my head back under the water to rinse my hair out.
The water is significantly cooler than when we started, but I am once again impressed that my little water heater lasted this long.
Clay reaches behind me to turn the water off, then steps out of the shower to grab us a towel.
They’re warm to the touch because I’m bougie and I splurged on a heated towel rack. It’s a luxury I didn’t get in my everyday life before.
We dry off our bodies, and Clay stands behind me, hands on my hips as I blow-dry my hair.
I don’t have it in me to dry it completely, but I know I’ll regret it if I don’t at least get the hair on my scalp dried.
It really doesn’t take that long, but it feels like ages as I keep eye contact with Clay the whole time.
Normally, I’d flip my head over and get the bottom better, but the way he’s looking at me has me rushing to be done.
When I set the blow-dryer down, he leans forward and sinks his teeth into the little slope between my neck and shoulder.
I gasp, the bite is hard enough that I know it’ll leave a mark, but the sting is soothed when he smooths his tongue over it.
I lean back into him, letting him take some of my weight as I find it harder and harder to breathe.
He kisses up and down my neck, sucking on my earlobe as his hand snakes up and loosens the knot at my chest, letting my towel drop to the ground.
He does a slow perusal of my body in the mirror, eyes taking in every single inch of me.
When his stormy gray eyes find mine watching him in the mirror, he leans forward and whispers into my ear.
“Look at you. Look at how gorgeous you are.” Dropping his own towel to the ground, he pulls my hips back into his.
“Look how well we fit together. You were made for me.” His hands start to wander, tickling my skin.
I whimper when a finger dusts over my clit, his other hand gripping my thigh so tight, I don’t doubt it will leave a bruise.
“Mine,” he growls into my ear as he thrusts two fingers inside of me.
“Clay,” I moan. My back arches deeper into his chest as he strokes his fingers inside of me. My whole body is buzzing with need, muscles clenching around his fingers, hips bucking.
“Ride me. I want to watch you come on my hand.” He dusts kisses down my neck, watching what he’s doing to me in the mirror.
I feel so exposed to him, with my body on display.
My breasts bounce as he thrusts his fingers inside of me.
I feel vulnerable in a way that I’ve never felt with anyone else, ever.
Spreading my legs further apart, I shift my hips back, swiveling them, exploring what feels good.
Finding a rhythm that suits me, I tip my head back onto his chest and reach up with my hand, gripping the back of his neck, holding on for dear life as I do exactly what he asked and ride his hand.
Clay’s free hand reaches up from my thigh, leaving red finger-length marks where he was holding me.
Those same fingers find a nipple to play with.
He twists and pulls until my nipple hardens into a peak, giving me a little pinch before moving onto the other side.
I moan into him, his fingers crooking up at the perfect angle for me.
My legs begin to shake, my orgasm so close, but still out of reach.
“Do you need more, Leni girl?” Clay’s voice skates over me, making the hair on my arms stand up, pleasure shooting deep into my already needy core.
“Yeah,” I whimper.
“Show me how you touch yourself,” he pauses what he’s doing with his fingers and looks me straight in the eyes through the mirror. “I want to see how you come when you touch yourself thinking about me.”
“Oh God,” I cry, circling my clit with my free hand.
I couldn’t tell you how many times I did this, wishing it were his hands on me instead of mine.
How many fantasies he starred in, even after everything, it was always him that came to mind when I came.
Now, having him here, his fingers inside of me, mouth on my neck, I can hardly breathe. It’s too much.
I press a little harder, rubbing that little bundle of nerves at the same time he crooks his fingers inside of me, and I’m a goner, incoherently sobbing his name over and over again as my orgasm barrels through me so hard it’s almost painful.
I don’t even know how I’m holding myself up, or if I am holding myself up.
It’s more likely that Clay is keeping both of us upright.
My legs feel as stable as a freshly born foal’s.
I’m gasping, riding the waves as I come back down from the pleasure, my body jolting as Clay takes his fingers from inside of me.
I watch, unable to look away from our reflection, when he brings them to his mouth, cleaning off my arousal.