Chapter 3 #2
"Mm." I notice she’s barefoot, as she steps closer. Her eyes flick down my chest and back up, mostly business. "Give me that shelf.”
I hand it to her and she places it on the vanity. Then she crouches and picks up the bottles. She grabs a rag from the cabinet underneath the vanity and wipes the spilled shampoo off the tile with no fuss.
I sit there watching her clean up after my dumb ass, and I can’t find a single way this could be worse for my dignity.
She straightens up and takes stock of the situation.
Then she grabs the shampoo bottle, and a folded hand towel and washcloth from the shelving on the wall. "Sit up a little."
"What?"
"Sit up. Let’s do your hair first."
"Laurel, you don’t have to—"
"Beck, I have a brother and an ex-husband. I’ve been around men too stubborn to ask for help as well as washed enough horses asses to be qualified to wash a man."
I smirk and sit up a little. “Okay then.”
“Your job is to keep those bubbles intact, mister.” She says, dropping the hand towel on the tile, and lowering herself onto her knees beside the tub. Now her face is just a tad higher than mine. Her braid has fallen forward over her shoulder, and I’m noticing shades in it I haven’t seen before.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, as she takes the handheld nozzle off its cradle and turns on the tap. She cups her hand under the spray until she's satisfied with the temperature and then runs the water over my head.
It's perfectly warm. She seems like the kind of woman who’d never let a person sit under cold water by accident.
The water runs down my head, neck, and chest. And I close my eyes, because it feels nice having her here, taking care of me, despite the circumstances.
She squirts something onto my scalp and starts working it in.
Sweet Christ.
Her fingers are strong, massaging as she washes.
She’s not playing around, but she's also not rushing, and every pass of her nails over my scalp sends a shiver down my spine.
She works the lather from my temples to the crown of my head, then down the back to the nape of my neck, and her thumbs rotate in circles at the base of my skull.
I can’t help but groan, dropping forward.
Thankfully, she doesn’t stop.
At the moment, I’m living a life I do not deserve.
"Keep your eyes shut and lean back," she says, and her voice is low and hoarse, and not helping me drive away thoughts of pulling her into the tub with me.
I hear her take the nozzle and cup a hand along my hairline so the water doesn't go in my eyes. Then she urges me forward and runs her hand through my hair.
It’s heaven.
"So you've done this before?” I ask.
"My ex-husband," she says, after a pause. Her voice is even. Maybe too even. "Broke his arm on a ski trip with his work buddies a couple years back. Couldn't lift it over his head for weeks. I bathed him every night."
I open my eyes.
She's right there, her face close, but she's not looking at me. Her eyes are focused on a spot on the rim of the tub somewhere near my elbow.
"Found out a year later it wasn't a work trip he was on.” She continues. "He was with his assistant. The broken arm was real, the story around it wasn't. I spent all that time taking care of him after he'd been with her, and I had no clue."
Her green eyes finally move to mine. There's no tears in them. Whatever crying she did about this, was probably a long time ago.
"That was the first lie I caught," she says. "But there were many more."
"Laurel."
She shrugs, shaking her head, as if to just drop it. Then turns away, squeezing water from my hair. She takes the washcloth and sprays water on it, then lathers it with some soap.
She presses the cloth to my shoulder and rubs.
“You know I’m not doing this on purpose, right?”
“Doing what?”
“Falling all over myself, just so you’ll help me.”
She furrows her brow. “I know. You have too much pride for that.”
I chuckle. “I’m glad someone thinks so.”
The washcloth is warm and pleasantly rough, as she runs the cloth down my arm, my hand, and then even lifts it up to get my armpit. She reaches across to get the other arm, and I’m just trying to enjoy it while I can and not think about her body right in front of me.
Then she heads down the slope of my pecs, and I take in an unsteady breath.
She moves the cloth across my chest, over my ribs, and I’m tracking her progress with the kind of focus I used to reserve for hitting marks at full gallop on a movie set.
Her knuckles graze the line of hair just above my navel, at the edge of the bubbles, and if she’s not careful, those bubbles won’t be able to hide what’s underneath much longer.
Her other hand is braced on the rim of the tub near my shoulder, and she's leaning in—her braid swinging forward against my arm.
I can feel her breath on my face.
Her gaze drops to my mouth, and now I’m rock hard.
I want to tilt my face toward her so badly my whole body is one massive ache.
But I told myself I'd let her come to me, and I am, somehow, going to be a man of my word.
Her tongue touches her lower lip once before she straightens, and I fight the shudder. She wrings the cloth out and lays it on the rim of the tub.
"I’m sure you can manage the rest," she says. She pulls a towel off the bar as she turns, and lays it near me. "Holler, if you need help getting out."
"Laurel."
She turns back for a moment.
“Thanks,” I say.
She just nods with a small smile and walks out.
The bathroom door clicks shut behind her and I sit there in the water, my heart going absolutely crazy.
I finish washing up and bring the towel to my face, breathing into it.
As I lift myself up and onto the rim of the tub to dry off, I can’t believe how badly I want this woman.
But I’ll need to show her she can trust me.
Even if it kills me.
And it might.