by Skye Warren
It takes every ounce of willpower to make myself do it. My body revolts at the very idea, fighting me with dead weight and sharp stabs of pain. It’s like standing for the first time. My feet touch the floor. I try to remember how to straighten my legs.
Anders watches me without a hint of mercy in his pale blue eyes. He doesn’t offer a hand to help me, and why would he? I insisted I could do this myself. I must look pathetic to him.
Then I’m standing.
For one second. Two. Dizziness swamps me again. The world tips over.
He catches me before I can even let out a cry. Strong arms scoop me up, and then the world twists again. I’m looking at the ceiling again, my arms wrapped around his neck, as if my body knows I can trust him even if my mind knows better. This close he’s more sensation than man—the glint of sunlight off his blond hair, the starchy scent of his white shirt, the slight bow to his thin, hard lips.
A scent plays at my nose, something musky and complex and male. I don’t even want to imagine what smells he’s getting from me, when I haven’t washed in days.
Steam envelopes me in the bathroom. It’s already fogged up the mirrors and made the tile slick. An old-fashioned bathtub with claw feet and a freestanding faucet stands proudly in front of a bay window. Thin fabric blinds reveal trees and open sky. I’ve never seen a view like this in Tanglewood. We must be facing away from the city. Blue water swirls above white cotton towels. He’s draped them along the sides and bottom of the tub.
He leans down, and my hands slide along his neck. I hold on tighter even as he lets me go. I sink into the hot water. A moan fills the humid air, long and low. I know as soon as I make the sound that it was wrong, that it was a mistake, that it sounds way too sexual, but I couldn’t have held it in. Not when my body feels like it’s found the spring of life. He only filled it to my waist. The water laps at my belly button like a sensual touch. The warmth seeps into my legs and hips, bone deep. The towels against the sides keep me from slipping. I rest my head back on a long sigh.
The planes of his face are harder now. He stands straight, about a million miles above me. It’s how a climber would look once he’s scaled a mountain. Strained. Proud. Possibly worried about the descent. The peak is only halfway there.
A small marble table holds soap. He picks it up in that same brusque, professional manner, except no doctor would do this, not even one paid to care for the rich. No ordinary doctor would lean down to wet the soap and slide it over my arm.
Anders isn’t an ordinary doctor. He’s my captor and my savior.
His hands are careful and gentle as he washes my arms, my shoulders. His palms rub over my breasts, soapy and callused, and I suck in a breath. Then he’s moved away, but there’s no relief from the tension, not when he’s moving down—across my stomach, to my hips, my thighs. The scent of rose rises from the soap, and I have to fight to remember why it’s a bad idea for him to touch me.
I’m a grown woman in a gorgeous bathroom, but I still feel like a little kid in a place with dark drains and cracked tile. My mother would crank our water heater up to full tilt to fill the bathtub. She would boil a pot of water on the stove and pour it in. Once a week I’d get those perfectly hot baths. It would be the pure luxury for a girl with too-short pants and a torn windbreaker. The only luxury we could afford, really. Even the hot dogs had to be rationed out between the noodles and beans.
“Where did you go?” a low voice murmurs.
I glance at Anders, who probably has no idea what it feels like be hungry or cold. How can he when a million-dollar chess piece is a family heirloom? “Memories.”
“Bad ones,” he says, rinsing the soap suds from my shoulder, his movements deft and careful as he avoids my stitches. “You look like someone kicked your puppy.”
My step-father was supposed to change that for my mother. He was supposed to be a good man who went fishing on weekends and liked to watch sitcoms at night. He had a nice house. She would never be cold or hungry again, except she didn’t know the dark side of him. She didn’t know he would make me steal for him, wriggling my ten-year-old body through places too small for an adult to fit.
I close my eyes, blocking out the past. “Do you ever wonder if there was a moment, just a single moment where you made a decision that set you on this path? Do you ever wonder if you could have made a different decision, walked a different path?”
“Easy to blame yourself in hindsight. Much harder to predict the future.”
I look at him, surprised by the understanding in his voice. He sounds sympathetic, which is ironic considering my path sent me to steal from him. “But you said there are moral absolutes.”
“You might absolutely be on the wrong path. That doesn’t mean you could have avoided it. The world can be a cold fucking place. It doesn’t always give you a choice.”
Those blue eyes challenge me at the same time as they sympathize with me. It’s an invitation to tell him everything. A promise that he won’t judge me too harshly. The temptation is as seductive as his fingertips stroking the inside of my elbows. I want to trust him, but there’s nothing for me. It’s an illusion, like the soapy water that shields me from his gaze—not really there. I can’t give him back the chess piece, even if I had it in my pocket. It’s the only thing keeping my mother safe. She never did see Victor for who he was. Not even now. I’m not sure how I’ll get her out when she still doesn’t believe that he’s anything other than a doting husband. She’s never trusted me, and that hurts the most. Sometimes I wonder why I’m fighting so freaking hard to protect someone who doesn’t even believe me. But then I take a hot bath and remember how hard she worked to make my childhood bearable. There may be moral absolutes, but people are too complex to whittle down to right and wrong. Real people are messy. Even the man in front of me.
The warm water laps at my stomach, my hips, my arms. It lulls me into a sense of security. My eyes drift closed. “I can't remember the last time I had a bath.”
“Only lukewarm showers in the motel room.”
My throat constricts. I didn't want to steal on principle, but the truth is I didn't think it was harming anyone. Someone who owns a million-dollar chess piece isn't exactly struggling, are they?
Except I don't know anything about this man's struggles. The victim of my theft is no longer an abstract. He's flesh and blood. He's washing me.
“I'm sorry,” I whisper. It's as close to a full confession as I can get.
Not even guilt can make me endanger my mother.
Two fingers under my chin. He lifts until I meet his gaze. “You didn’t have a choice.”
It's not a question. Anyone who saw my motel room knows I'm broke. My cheeks heat as I remember the door dented from some long-ago baseball bat, the mold climbing up the walls. He was in that room. He must have been to find me in the alley. “Don’t make excuses for me.”
“I don’t have to. I see the way it’s eating you up.”
He doesn’t bother to wait for an answer, not that I have one to give. Instead he moves to the foot of the bathtub. It’s farther away and somehow more intimate, him looking at me head-on.
“Lift,” he says, his voice gruffer than I remember. He pulls one foot from the water and soaps me there. Then the other one, his movements becoming slower, more languid. He still hasn’t touched me between my legs. It’s an omission that seems louder with every inch of skin he covers.
The rosewater has created a pink glow in the room. Or maybe that’s my heat-tinged skin. Or maybe it’s the desire that feels almost tangible in the space between us. I’m naked in front of a man who’s wearing all his clothes. Only his sleeves are rolled up, the very edges stained dark from the splash.
He puts the soap back, and disappointment fills me.
Instead he picks up a small blush-colored tube that I’m guessing holds shampoo. Especially when he stands behind me, his hands pulling my hair away from my face. It clings to my skin from the sweat and the steam. His fingers are impossibly c
areful as he tucks the strands into the mass he’s collected. These are the hands that stitched my wound and so avoided it when washing me. These are the hands of a healer.
“Lean forward.” He definitely sounds deeper now, almost tearing off the words, fierce with them. A gold-plated stand holds a shower spray, and he sets the water to almost boiling. I make a squeak of pleasant protest before my scalp adjusts to the feel. He works the soap in his hands before running square-tipped fingers over my head. I have a brief thought that he’s no longer in charge of me, he’s serving me, and I don’t know where the line between those two was. Then his fingers massage the shampoo into my scalp, and I can’t think anymore. There’s only bliss. Only this.
Time seems to lengthen and unroll as he moves the shampoo between every strand of hair. Even turning the spray back on to rinse doesn’t lift the fog. He repeats the process with a creamy conditioner next, the moisture sliding between us in a way that’s almost sexual. I catch him studying a strand of my hair, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger, bringing it to his nose to scent. His blue gaze meets mine, but he doesn’t look abashed. If anything there’s acknowledgment. Promise.
He takes his time rinsing the conditioner, letting the spray beat down on my shoulders, my neck, until I’m soft and malleable and burning hot. Everything feels completely right about this—being naked in front of him, being helpless beneath his hands. Being his. I know that if I looked down at his slacks I’d see the proof of his desire, but I can’t look away from his eyes.
He shuts off the spray, and the sudden quiet in the room throbs with that one single part of my body he hasn’t touched. It’s a sultry melody, that knowledge. It bounces off the mirrors and the tiles. It floats on the dampness in the air.
The soap rests on the marble table, still slick from its earlier work.
He picks it up and looks at it. There’s a war being fought inside him. A decision being made. He leans toward me, and my thighs part in anticipation. I’m ready for him, more than ready. I’m aching.
The soap is in front of me. He’s holding it out, offering it to me. “You can wash there yourself,” he says, but they’re not words anymore. They’re a rumble. They’re a landslide.
I hold his gaze, which promises both pleasure and pain in equal portion. A smart woman would have avoided him altogether, but I’m here, I’m here. I’m already here, and if I’m going to have the pain, I deserve the pleasure, too. I grasp his wrist, and both of us freeze at the sensation. It’s the first move I’ve made in this bathtub. No longer passive. Even this small action changes everything. I can feel the tendon and muscle and bone beneath my grip. And the warmth of him. God, he’s burning.
“Please,” I whisper. “Do it for me.”
I’m talking about more than a bath. I’m talking about an orgasm and about protection. I’m talking about life, and the way I’ve been holding my head high through a million hard days. And this day, this one day, I want to let him do this for me.
“Yes,” he breathes, the sound almost a groan.
He moves the bar of soap down my stomach, to the V between my legs. Even in this oversized bathtub there’s not quite enough room to spread my thighs. That makes it feel more illicit when he wedges his way between them. He keeps the slick rectangle between us, using the corner to slide through my folds. My mouth opens on an intake of air. I’m frozen that way, clinging to the towel-covered curves of the tub, muscles taut. His hands still, his expression hard as he studies me.
Pale skin. Dark hair. Pink soap. The picture it makes is somehow pretty, almost wholesome until he angles his wrist. Smoothness touches my clit, and I let out a whimper.
“Go ahead.” Lids hang low over winter-window eyes. “Take what you need.”
The bar of soap hovers over my clit, not moving a bit. The lack of friction makes me ache. Tears prick my eyes. There’s a yawning void inside me, and it won’t only be filled by sexual release—but that’s the only thing he’s offering. “I can’t.”
“Want to see you move.” The words could be a command. It’s laced with a plea. He wants to see me move, and from the way his cheekbones have darkened, the way his arm muscles strain just to stay still, I think he needs to see me move. That need unlocks the box inside me. I’m not worried about how I look to him, whether I’m desperate or foolish. I can’t give him the chess piece, but I can give him this.
I nudge my hips forward—only a centimeter. It feels like a hard, deep plunge into a sensual world. My clit slides against the bar of soap. Sensation sparks through my whole body. My breath chokes out, a halted sound echoing off the ceramic bathtub.
I’m panting as if I’ve run a mile.
Then I move again, rocking my hips.
My rhythm is jerky and uncertain. Water sloshes up the sides. The soap slides too low and too high and then right in the crevice that feels like home. The whole time his knuckles brush against me, scorching even against the backdrop of a hot bath. The whole thing is messy and wet and perfect.
“God,” he mutters, watching me squirm. “You’re perfect.”
Not sexy. Not even beautiful. I’m perfect, as if he sees the real me. In this moment, with his crystal gaze searing my skin, it feels like he can see right to my very heart. To the heart that wants family more than anything, even my own innocence, even more than safety. I’ll throw myself onto this icy fire to find it, and that’s exactly what I’ve done, here I am.
His right hand holds the soap. His left cups the back of my neck. I let my head fall back. It bares my neck—a submissive pose. The evolutionary animal inside me recognizes that. His narrowed gaze and bared teeth prove he does, too. He bends down, and in a moment of wild thought, of relief, I think he’s going to bite me. Mark me. Instead he places a feathersoft kiss above the stitches.
It’s a match to a lifetime of kindling. Sorrow pours out of me from a thousand directions. Dry sobs wrack my body. The soap moves in a fatal slide, and climax clamps down on my body. That’s how I peak—crying, coming, chanting his name. “Anders Anders Anders.”
It seems to go on for eternity. It’s over in a few blinding seconds.
The orgasm leaves my body as quickly as it arrived, leaving me slumped against the bathtub, every muscle drained and shaking, staring into blue-white eyes that blaze with male satisfaction.
He takes me out of the bathtub when my arms and legs are still made of jelly. His hands turn me this way and that, using a plush towel to dry me, as if I’m a doll he’s taking care of. He’s careful around each bruise and cut. This doll can feel pain. When I’m fully dry, he finds a tube of ointment and rubs white cream into each open abrasion. Steady hands lead me out of the bathroom. Part of me recognizes the thickness in his slacks. He needs something from me. Doesn’t he? Except his hands don’t feel needy as he guides me to the bed. Cool sheets. A soft pillow. Then sleep.
Chapter Nine
Anders
I follow the ambiguous scent of food to the kitchen, passing a dining room with china laid out as if it’s a four-course meal instead of a random Tuesday dinner. I’m used to picking up an apple on my way through the Den’s commercial kitchen or eating a power bar in my room.
One of the unintended side effects of keeping Natalie here is that I’m invited to sit down to dinner with Gabriel and Avery. I don’t dislike it. I’m not sure I look forward to it, either.
Isolation comes too easily to me.
As I reach the doorway I smell something sharp and burnt. The kitchen is a whirlwind of chopped vegetables. Shards of carrots and celery and cabbage cover the countertop and sink—even the floor. A large pot gurgles on the stove. The bubbles are large and already at the rim.
The thing’s about to spill over.
There are no people in sight, but I hear a small shuffling sound from the pantry. I look in, expecting to see Avery picking out ingredients. Instead there’s a couple in the walk-in space, a man crowding a pregnant woman against the wall, his mouth on her neck, her eyes closed.
A sm
all moan fills the space.
Shit. They’re having a private moment. I start to back away. I’m soft on my feet, but Gabriel’s damn near a predator. He whirls to face me, shielding her with his body.
“Hell,” he says, his expression dark. Any man would be cross when interrupted this way.
“I’ll come back later.”
“No!” Avery says from over his shoulder. “Dinner’s almost ready. Don’t go away.”
A low growl from Gabriel that I understand too well right now. It’s pretty goddamn painful to have lust and nowhere to go. He curses under his breath but moves aside to let Avery run to the stove. Whatever’s there has foamed and frothed, spilling into the shiny metal surface.
“Ohh no.” She turns the range off and stirs gently until it calms down. “It looks okay, actually. I hope you like your noodles mushy and your chicken rubbery, though.”
“I’m sure it will be delicious,” Gabriel says, one golden eyebrow raised, daring me to disagree.
“Delicious,” I say, because the last thing I’m going to do is complain about my dinner. Especially when cooked by a pregnant woman. I study the way she rests her hand on her back, the way her feet look swollen. I’m a doctor first, man second. Except when it comes to the woman upstairs. This woman looks tired and sore. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather use a meal delivery service?”
“No,” Avery says vehemently, her hazel eyes flashing as she glances at me over her shoulder. “I have to figure this out. How am I going to feed a baby if I can’t even make chicken noodle soup?”
I look at Gabriel, who shakes his head slightly. I’m missing the logic here, because you don’t feed babies chicken noodle soup and I’m pretty sure Avery knows that. “Is this one of those hormone things?”
She gives me a venomous look, her hand stirring the pot so hard it looks like she wants to bash my head in with that wooden spoon. “No, it’s a mother thing.”
“She’s worried,” Gabriel says, his voice low.