15. Killian
KILLIAN
The bathroom fills with steam as I adjust the water temperature, trying to find that perfect balance between warm enough to wash away the day and cool enough to soothe Isla’s swollen face.
My heart hammers against my ribs like I’m standing on the mound in the bottom of the ninth with bases loaded and a one-run lead.
Not that this is anything like that. Not at all.
“Is this okay?” I ask her over my shoulder.
The swelling on her cheek is darkening to an angry purple, and guilt twists in my gut like a knife.
I hear the soft pad of her bare feet on the bathroom floor as she comes up behind me.
She sticks her hand in the shower, letting the water run over her skin.
She nods, her lids half-closed with exhaustion. “Yeah. It’s perfect.”
I step back, giving her space as she reaches for the hem of her shirt. Her fingers tremble slightly, and without thinking, I step forward to help.
“Let me,” I plead, carefully lifting the blood-stained fabric over her head. The shirt catches on her hair, and I have to lean in close to free it, my face inches from hers. She smells like sweat and grass and something sweet underneath—strawberries, maybe—and my mouth goes dry.
When the shirt finally comes off, and she pushes out of her shorts, I finally get a glimpse of what’s underneath and my brain short-circuits.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I mumble.
“What?” She glances down at herself and then back at me hurriedly. “What is it? Am I bleeding somewhere?”
“What? No.” I shake my head. “No. I’m sorry, Isla, it’s just…”
Fucking hell, I didn’t expect this.
“I…you’re…”
“I’m what, Killian? What’s wrong with me?”
“Nothing is wrong with you,” I breathe. “You’re beautiful. Like…really fucking pretty and it just…I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have looked but I couldn't help myself.”
Her bra is black lace, delicate and barely there, the kind of thing that makes a man’s hands itch to touch.
The matching black panties do nothing to smother the fire currently burning in my chest. I force my eyes away from her body, focusing instead on the tile wall behind her head, but the image of her in that black lace is already burned into my brain.
The delicate curve of her collarbone, the way the fabric hugs her hips and breasts, the hint of freckles scattered across her chest like constellations I want to map with my tongue.
Isla’s cheeks flush pink beneath the swelling. “It’s just underwear, Killian.”
Just underwear, my ass.
It’s a fucking wet dream is what it is.
I clear my throat and, out of morbid curiosity, boldly ask her, “Did you wear this for me?”
She stares at me for a moment not answering, and somewhere, in that beautiful mind of hers, I’m pretty damn sure the answer to my question is an unequivocal yes.
But she doesn’t admit it. Instead, she says, “I wear it to feel pretty.” She crosses her arms and allows her eyes to drop down my body.
“And now that you’ve seen mine…it’s only fair, don’t you think? ”
I raise a brow. “You want to see my cock?”
“No, I don’t want to see your cock.” She shakes her head.
“Wait. I mean…it’s not that I don’t want…
that’s not what I…I was talking about your underwear.
” She gestures to the fact that I’m still in my gym shorts that I had on at the game.
I quickly tug them down and let them fall to the ground, kicking them out of the way so I’m left standing before her in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs.
“This okay?” I’d gladly take them off and show her my whole body if she wanted me to, but I’m also a good dude. Consent is consent, and anyway, I’m not about to even consider using this evening as a way to get into Isla’s pants.
No matter how tempting she may be in black lace.
She nods. “Yeah. Okay. Let’s do this.”
“Okay.” I move a hand to the small of her back to help guide her under the water. “Ground rules. You keep your face covered the whole time. No exceptions. And you tell me if anything hurts, if you feel dizzy, if you want to stop. Anything. Yeah?”
“M-hmm.” She brings her hands to her face and steps back under the warm water.
I grab the shampoo from the shelf and pour some into my palm, trying to focus on the task at hand and not the way the water is making her black lace bra nearly transparent.
“Lean your head back,” I instruct, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m going to start with your hair.”
Isla tilts her head back, her hands covering her face as planned.
The water cascades down her beautiful red hair, turning it dark as it becomes saturated.
I work the shampoo onto her scalp, my fingers massaging in gentle circles.
Her hair is softer than I expected, silky between my fingers, and I find myself taking my time, enjoying the simple intimacy of this moment.
I’ve never washed a woman’s hair before.
“You have really nice hands,” she whimpers, her voice slightly muffled by her palms. “For someone who throws baseballs for a living.”
I chuckle softly, the sound bouncing off the tile walls. “What does that even mean?”
“I don’t know,” she admits. “They’re just...gentle. I wasn’t expecting that.”
Her words squeeze my heart. I rinse the shampoo from her hair, careful to keep the water away from her face.
The soapy water runs down her neck, over her shoulders, disappearing between her breasts, and I swallow hard, forcing myself to focus on her hair and not the way the water makes the fabric cling to her skin.
“I’m sorry it’s not the strawberry stuff you’re used to.”
“How did you know I use strawberry shampoo?”
I feel myself smile even though she can’t see me, the awkward tension dissipating between us as I work my fingers through her hair. “Lucky guess.”
The steam is making it harder to breathe, or maybe that’s just the proximity of Isla’s nearly naked body. I’m hyper-aware of every inch of space between us, of the way her breasts rise and fall with each breath, and the way her skin glistens under the water.
“Okay, hair’s done. I’m going to wash your body now, is that okay?”
The words hang between us, heavy with implication. Isla shifts slightly, her hands still covering her face.
“I can stop if you want,” I offer, though every cell in my body is screaming at me to keep going. “I can hand you the soap and you can—”
“No,” she says quickly. “I’m...I’m good. Just...be gentle with me, okay?”
“Always.” I reach for the body wash, pouring some into my palm before hesitating. “Where should I...I mean, how do you want me to—”
“Maybe start with my shoulders,” she says, her voice steadier than I expect. “And work your way down.”
“Alright. You tell me if it’s too much.”
She nods silently and I get to work. Lathering the body wash in my palms, I stand behind her, my hands moving slowly, washing, massaging her neck and shoulders, deliberately tracing the contours of her shoulder blades and the dip of her spine.
The soap slides between my fingers as I work my way down, trying to ignore the way her skin feels beneath my touch; warm, smooth, alive.
Fuck, it feels good to be touching her.
My cock stirs in my briefs but I do everything I can short of thinking about my grandmother in her nightgown to keep myself from going crazy.
Isla’s breathing changes, becoming slightly shallower and more rapid. The sound of the shower fills the silence between us, but I can hear her heartbeat—or maybe it’s mine—pounding in my ears.
“Are you okay?” I ask, my voice rougher than I intend.
“Yes,” she says, though her voice trembles slightly.
I continue washing her back, my thumbs pressing into the muscles along her spine. She’s tense, wound tight, and I can feel the knots beneath her skin. Without thinking, I apply more pressure, working the tension away with my fingers.
“God, that feels good,” she purrs, her head dropping forward slightly.
Yep. I’m hard.
Fuck.
My hands move to her arms, lathering soap along their length, careful to be gentle but thorough. The steam surrounds us, creating a world that feels separate from everything else. Just us, the water, and the electricity crackling between our bodies.
Tall enough to glance over her shoulder, I move my hands around her waist, trails of soap suds in their wake as I glide over her torso. I drag my fingers achingly slow so that my thumbs smooth just under her breasts and my fingertips just inside the waistband of her panties.
Fuck me.
I could so easily cup her gorgeous mounds in my hands and give them a gentle squeeze. I could pinch her nipples and make her feel good. I could slip my hand between her legs and hear what she sounds like when she comes.
But I can’t be that guy.
Not tonight.
Tonight she needs me to take care of her while she’s hurting.
But after tonight, by God, I hope she’ll give me the chance to beg forgiveness for the pain I’ve caused.
I force myself to pull my hands away from the edge of her panties, focusing instead on her legs.
I kneel down, my knees pressing into the cold tile as I soap her legs, her thighs first and then her calves.
The water cascades down her body, and I’m acutely aware of how close my face is to the apex of her thighs.
Motherfucker.
“Killian?” Her voice is barely audible over the running water.
“Yeah?” I look up at her, though she can’t see me with her hands still covering her face.
“Is this weird?”
I laugh softly, the sound bouncing off the tile walls. “Depends on your definition of weird.”
“I mean,” Isla continues, her voice slightly muffled by her hands, “I’m standing in your shower in my underwear while you wash my body. That’s either really weird or really… intimate.”
I rinse the soap from her calves, trying to ignore the way my heart is hammering against my ribs. “I think two things can be true.”
Her breathing hitches slightly, and I take notice of the way her body responds to my touch. The warm water making everything feel heightened and more intense.
“Killian?”
“Yeah?”