35. Clara #2
I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.
The door closes behind me as I step inside, the heat wrapping around me instantly. The sight of him standing there waiting for me without pressure, without expectation, nearly undoes me.
“Hi,” I say, my voice barely louder than the water hitting the tile.
A slow, warm smile spreads across his face. “Hi, sunshine.”
I step closer to him, my eyes roving over every inch of his skin. I catch sight of the small, circular scar near his shoulder—silvery and raised against his warm olive tone. It draws me in like a magnet.
I reach out, tracing the mark with the tips of my fingers. “Does it hurt?” I ask softly.
He shakes his head, a shiver running through him, goosebumps breaking out across his skin under my touch.
“Aches sometimes,” he rasps, “but it doesn’t hurt.”
I watch him for a while, just breathing and drinking him in. The way he runs his hands through his hair. The calm, unhurried way he moves. His skin slick with water as he rinses, the muscles in his back flexing. I squeeze my thighs together, heat blooming low in my belly.
“Can I wash you?” His voice is gentle, steady, yet rough around the edges.
I swallow hard. “Yes.”
He steps closer and turns me with a gentle touch, settling my back to his chest. I can feel his heart beating against mine.
“Are you sure, sunshine?” he murmurs near my ear. “You feel tense. ”
I nod, voice catching in my throat. “I’m sure, Maverick.
” Lifting a hand behind me, I stroke his cheek, reveling in the feel of his beard against my fingers.
“The last time someone was there… while I was in the shower… it was in that prison. I don’t want to think about that anymore.
I want you to replace those memories. I want to think of this —of you —instead. ”
Maverick exhales, pressing a kiss to my temple. He takes my hand and brings my wrist to his mouth, resting his lips on my pulse point for a beat. “Well, then. Let me rewrite your memories, sunshine.”
He guides me beneath the stream until my hair is drenched, warm water cascading down my back. He reaches for the shampoo, lathering it between his hands before massaging it into my scalp. His fingers are firm but gentle, and I can’t help the moan that slips from my lips.
“Feel good?” he murmurs.
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
He rinses the suds away and repeats the process with conditioner, his fingers gliding through my hair. Then he reaches for a soft cloth, lathering it with soap and starting at my shoulders. He moves slow, rubbing the fabric against me in small circles—down my arms, across my stomach.
He lingers at my breasts, between my thighs—everywhere but where I’m aching. I can’t withhold the whimper that escapes me. “Please.”
“Shh,” he whispers. “Let me worship you.”
Maverick takes his time rinsing my skin, and I watch the suds swirl and spiral down the drain like ghosts.
“I need you,” I breathe .
“This is about you,” he says. “I want to give you what you deserve. Want to rewrite your memories, just like you said. Want you to remember the way I touch you.”
He tilts my chin, kissing me softly, reverently, before trailing his lips along my jaw, stopping at my ear.
“Tell me what else I need to rewrite.”
My breath hitches. I don’t want to say it. I don’t . But if anyone can take my pain and hold it gently, it’s him.
On a broken whisper, I say, “He used to dry me off with a towel.”
Maverick bites his bottom lip, breath stuttering. Then he nods. “Be right back, baby.”
He steps out of the shower, leaving the door ajar. I watch as he dries off quickly, wraps a towel around his waist, and then reaches back in to shut off the water. He holds out a hand to me.
I take it and step out, letting this moment—this tenderness—swallow me whole.
He grabs two towels from the rack. With one, he gently wipes my face and neck, then carefully squeezes the water from my hair.
“Want you to keep your eyes on me. You hear, sunshine?”
“Yes,” I breathe.
After a beat, a harsh breath falls from my parted lips. Samson was always silent when he dried me off, amplifying my fear in anticipation of what would come next. “Talk to me, please.”
He nods, dropping the wet towel and picking up the fresh one. As he dries my body—slowly, thoroughly—he never looks away. His voice is soft and low, words brushing over my skin like his hands.
“You’re so strong, Clara. And so damn beautiful. Brave. Need you to know you aren’t broken. You’re here. With me.”
His words, his touch, all of him , unravels me, filling my eyes with tears. I’m unable to will them away, and he pauses when he notices the rivulets running down my cheeks. The towel in his hand joins the one on the floor, and he brings his thumb to my face, wiping the tears as they fall.
His eyes—those rich, dark chocolate eyes—search mine, heavy with an unspoken question. I offer him a trembling, watery smile. I’m okay. More than okay.
He moves to the sink where I keep my toiletries, pumps lotion into his hands, and begins smoothing it over my skin. His touch is reverent. Healing. Softening something sharp inside me—rending through the darkness.
Brushing his soft lips against mine, he whispers into my mouth, “What else?”
I draw in a shaky breath. “He’d take me to the bed.”
Maverick says nothing. Just takes my hand and leads me toward the bedroom.
He stops at the foot of the bed, and I freeze. The position. The angle. The memory. There’s no way he’d know that our current stance—me between the bed and his warm body—is the same position Samson locked me in.
I tremble, the air catching in my lungs.
He doesn’t miss it .
He presses a kiss to my shoulder, then grazes his lips across my skin. Turning me, he cups my face in his hands.
“He doesn’t belong in these moments. He has no power over you, sunshine.” He pauses, tilting my head until I meet his eyes. “It’s you and me.”
It’s in this moment that clarity washes over me. I feel it in my bones; an undeniable truth settling inside me like a warm embrace.
I love him.
And I would endure it all over again, just to be here—right here, right now—with him. A thousand times over.