Chapter 28 #2
And fuck, maybe it’s the martini, or maybe it’s just the rough shock of this moment, but right now, looking at the hunger in his eyes, I think he wants this as badly as I do.
It’s a big contrast to the cold distance he’s wrapped himself in all day, to the cruel, careless words he threw at me just a night ago.
His eyes lock on my breasts, then they drop to my ribs, to the curve of my stomach. He looks like he wants to bite something, and I have to swallow to stop myself from begging him to.
He doesn’t touch anything he’s not supposed to. Doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t ask for anything. He’s acting like a real fucking nurse. A hungry one. But still—a nurse.
He crouches in front of me and helps me out of my shorts with precision, steadying my bad leg as he slides the fabric down. His hands are firm, careful, then, without a word, he turns to the shower.
He tests the stool first, pressing down on each leg, giving it a small shake to make sure it won’t tip.
He adjusts the water, fiddles with the nozzle until the stream runs warm.
He lifts me and sets me down gently on the stool.
The warm water pours down my back in a steady stream and I forget to breathe.
Not because of the heat, it’s due to the way it feels to be… cared for. Seen. Every inch of me is bare and vulnerable under his hands, under his gaze.
He grabs a washcloth from the shelf and soaps it up. Wrings it out.
He starts at my shoulder with slow, circular motions. Nothing hurried. Nothing suggestive. Just Jax. Washing me.
The rough texture of the cloth against my skin sends sparks through my nervous system. He moves to my neck, his fingers brushing against the sensitive skin, his knuckles brush against my throat as he washes, and I swallow hard, my pulse jumping beneath his touch.
He moves down my arms, taking my wrist in one hand to steady me as he washes the other.
The cloth glides over my elbow and my forearm.
His thumb presses against my palm as he washes my hand, fingers intertwining with mine for a moment before he moves to the other side.
The intimacy of it is overwhelming. His thumb grazes just beneath the edge of my breast—not enough to call it a move, but enough that I feel it. All of it.
My nipple tightens in response and his breath hitches, his jaw clenches with the effort of restraint. I can feel the tension in his muscles, the slight tremor in his hands as he washes the curve of my waist, the dip of my stomach.
He moves lower, the cloth gliding over my hips, the tops of my thighs.
I’m trembling now. His hands are so close to where I want them, where I need them, but he doesn’t go there.
Instead, he kneels, the water splashing against his chest as he washes my good leg, starting with my calf and working his way down to my ankle, my foot.
His thumbs press into the arch and I gasp, pleasure shooting through me.
He could so easily break this moment open.
He doesn’t. He rises, and tilts my chin toward the water.
His fingers are gentle against my neck as he positions me, and then he pours the water through my hair with a quiet care that makes me want to scream.
Not because it’s not enough, but because it is.
It is so much more than I could have ever wanted.
The water cascades down my body. His fingers work through my hair, massaging my scalp with a gentleness that contradicts the raw desire I can feel radiating from him.
When he rinses the last of the shampoo away, his hands linger at the nape of my neck, thumbs stroking circles there, making me swallow a moan.
I turn to face him, water plastering my hair to my skin, droplets clinging to my eyelashes.
His eyes are clear with want, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath.
The water streams between us, a barrier and a connection all at once.
His hand comes up to cup my cheek, thumb stroking over my cheekbone, and I lean into his touch, desperate for more of it.
But then the water stops. The sudden silence is deafening, broken only by the drip from the shower head and our ragged breaths.
He wraps a towel around my shoulders first, pressing, absorbing the water from my back. The towel moves to my stomach, then my hips. He dries the tops of my thighs, glides it down my leg, over my knee, shin and calf. He lifts my foot, drying it with the same painstaking care.
I expect him to stop there, to skip over the most intimate part of me, to give me that last shred of dignity. He doesn’t.
The towel glides upward, between my thighs. I suck in a deep breath as the terrycloth presses against my slick, heated flesh. His hand stills for a fraction of a second, the fabric absorbing the wetness there—wetness that has nothing to do with the shower.
I feel a tremor run through his arm, a barely suppressed shudder.
He’s struggling. I can feel it in the rigid set of his shoulders, in the way his breathing hitches.
He dries me with the same methodical care, pressing the towel against my most sensitive places, then moving around to my ass, his palm firm against the curve of my cheek.
It’s the most clinical, and yet most intimate, act I’ve ever experienced.
When he’s satisfied, he drapes the big towel around me properly, tucking it securely just above my breasts.
I’m fully covered now yet feeling more exposed than ever.
He helps me up, and before I can protest, he picks me up and carries me to the bedroom.
One arm hooked under my knees, the other firm around my back, securing me against his chest.
I want to wave him off, to push away, to remind him of the cold shoulder, of the humiliation, of the way he left me last night.
But I can’t pull myself to do it. My body betrays me, melting into his embrace, my head finding its natural place in the crook of his neck.
I should be so angry, but this… oh this… feels so good.
He doesn’t speak. He just moves, retrieving a brush from my bag in the corner. He shifts into full care mode, the brush detangling each strand carefully. He sits on the edge of the bed, and I shift, turning my back to him, presenting my tangled, damp hair like an offering.
The first stroke of the brush is tentative, meeting the first knot near the nape of my neck.
He’s figuring this out, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s his first time.
He doesn’t yank though. He works at it patiently, using his fingers to separate the strands before the brush follows, smoothing the path.
I can’t see his face, but I can feel his focus. It’s absolute. Each stroke is a meditation. He starts from the bottom, working his way up, section by section. The bristles scrape gently against my scalp, sending shivers down my body.
The room is silent except for the soft rasp of the bristles through my hair and the sound of our breathing, which has begun to sync.
My anger from last night feels like a distant memory, a story about someone else.
How can I hold onto that coldness when his touch is this warm?
When the hand that left me is now the one meticulously, lovingly, restoring me to order?
With every pass of the brush, I feel myself coming undone, all over again, until there’s nothing left but want.
And one impossible question.
“Question of the day?” I whisper.
The brush stills. “Go on.”
I turn slightly and ask, “Have you ever tied someone to your bed?”