Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
She’s still asleep when I return to the bedroom, sheets twisted around her hips, one breast bare, the faint purple bloom of a hickey I left on the swell of it catching the light. My throat tightens. I did that. I marked her. And she let me. She wanted it.
I slide my arms under her—one behind her shoulders, one under her knees—and lift her like she weighs nothing. She stirs, eyes fluttering open, hazy and soft.
“Ozzy?” Her voice is thick with sleep, raspy from all the moaning and begging she did last night.
“Morning, beautiful.” I kiss the corner of her mouth. “Got something for you.”
She nestles into my chest without protest, arms looping loosely around my neck. “You’re naked.”
“So are you.”
She hums, a sleepy little sound that vibrates against my skin. “Feels nice.”
I carry her into the bathroom, lower her carefully into the tub. The water laps around her thighs, then her waist as she sinks down. A long, contented sigh escapes her lips the second the heat hits her sore muscles.
“Ohhh God,” she breathes, head tipping back against the rolled edge. “That’s perfect.”
I kneel beside the tub, elbows on the rim, and just watch her for a minute. The way the water turns her skin pink, the way droplets cling to her collarbones, the slow blink of her lashes as the warmth seeps in. She looks like she’s melting. There’s tension bleeding out of her shoulders, and out of the faint lines that were etched around her eyes yesterday.
I reach for the washcloth, soak it, wring it just enough so it doesn’t drip everywhere, then add a squeeze of body wash. The scent rises—clean cotton and something faintly sweet. I start at her shoulders, dragging the cloth in slow, deliberate circles. Her skin is warm, slick under the suds. I work down her arms, lifting each one gently, washing between her fingers, over the delicate insides of her wrists where her pulse flutters slow and steady.
She watches me through half-closed eyes. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I want to.” I press my lips to the inside of her wrist, right over that pulse. “Let me take care of you.”
Her smile is small and soft. “You always do.”
I move to her chest next. I make sure I’m careful with her. The cloth glides over the curve of her breasts, around the sensitive undersides, across nipples that pebble at the lightest touch even though we’re not chasing heat right now. She arches just a fraction, a quiet inhale, but I don’t linger. This isn’t about starting anything. It’s about soothing. About reminding her body that touch can be gentle, too.
I wash her stomach, the faint red marks my fingers left on her hips yesterday. I trace each one with the cloth, then with my thumb, pressing lightly like I can erase them with care instead of force. She sighs again, deeper this time.
“Turn for me, baby.”
She shifts, presenting her back. I pour more soap onto the cloth, work it between her shoulder blades, and down the elegant line of her spine. Every vertebra gets its own slow pass. When I reach the small of her back I pause, thumbs digging gently into the knots there. It’s nothing aggressive, just enough pressure to make her moan low in her throat.
“Right there,” she murmurs. “God, yes.”
I keep going, kneading until the tension gives, then rinse the cloth and wipe away the suds. Her skin glows under the water now, flushed and smooth. I wash the backs of her thighs, the calves, lift one foot at a time to clean between her toes. She giggles when I brush the arch, and the sound is so light it makes my chest ache.
When I’m done with her legs I set the cloth aside and cup water in my hands, letting it pour over her shoulders, watching it run in rivulets down her back, her arms, her breasts. She closes her eyes, tips her head back so the water slicks her hair away from her face.
I lean in, and kiss the damp curve of her neck. “Feel better?”
“Mmm. Like I’m floating.”
“Good.” I reach for the shampoo, and work it into her hair. My fingers massage her scalp in slow circles, thumbs pressing at her temples, and behind her ears. She melts further, a quiet moan slipping out.
“You’re too good at this,” she whispers.
“Only for you.”
I rinse her hair carefully, shielding her eyes with one hand while I pour cup after cup of water over her head until every trace of soap is gone. Then conditioner with the same slow massage, letting it sit while I wash her face with a fresh cloth. I trace her cheekbones, her jaw, the soft bow of her upper lip. When I’m done I tilt her chin up and kiss her—slow, deep, unhurried. No tongue, just lips moving together like we have all the time in the world.