Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
He was just trying to help me. To push me into a feeling I’ve never experienced before.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice thick with sincerity. “Truly. That night, I thought you were going into detail about what happens to Reya because it was your way of . . . I don’t know. Giving me instructions.”
For the first time since I met him, I feel embarrassment coming from him.
I nod slowly, feeling the stiffness between us start to loosen, the fear dissolving into something softer. “Okay,” I say, my voice fragile but certain. “Just . . . make sure I’m actually asking you to do something before you do it from now on. Don’t assume.” There’s a slight tremor in my voice, a residual trace of the panic I felt earlier, but I mean what I say.
His expression softens even more. “I promise.” His hand remains on my cheek, his thumb gently stroking the skin there, as if he’s trying to reassure me, to ground me in this moment. He searches my eyes, and then he asks, “Do you want me to leave?”
The question hangs in the air, and for a split second, I consider it. Part of me thinks I should tell him to go. That I need space to process what just happened, to get a handle on my emotions. But I can’t bring myself to say the words. As much as I was terrified of him a few minutes ago, it wasn’t him I was scared of. It was the character he was playing. The situation we both created, however unintentionally.
I can’t fault him for that. Not entirely.
I shake my head, quickly, instinctively. “No,” I say, my voice soft but firm. “But can we just . . . I don’t want to pretend tonight.” I’m too tired to keep up the charade. I don’t have the energy to slip into the roles we’ve been playing. Tonight, I just want things to be simple and real.
Saint nods, understanding flashing in his eyes. He pulls me back against his chest, his arms wrapping around me again, and whispers, “Okay. Let’s just be us.”
Just us.
That shouldn’t make me feel as good as it does. After everything that’s happened, after the fear and confusion and all the lines we’ve crossed, I shouldn’t be able to find comfort in those words. But somehow, I do. A warmth spreads through me, something unexpected but welcome. His words seep into me, soothing my anxiety, and for the first time since he stepped into this shower, I feel a little bit of peace.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, pressing his lips to my forehead. “So sorry.”
“I know,” I reply. And I do know. I can feel his remorse in every touch, every word, and while I know it’s not enough to erase what happened, it’s enough for now. Enough to help me breathe again.
I start to orient myself more to the situation. I realize just how bright it is as I stand here, water dripping off my skin under the downpour of the shower, acutely aware of every inch of my body exposed in front of him. Other than a few heated kisses, I’m not sure I’ve experienced enough with this man to feel comfortable being completely naked under his gaze, especially in the bright light of this bathroom. It’s an odd vulnerability that I can’t shake.
How am I supposed to get out of this shower without his eyes being fully on me?
As if he can sense the shift in my mood, Saint lifts his gaze away from me with surprising gentleness, like he’s attuned to my every thought. Without saying a word, he reaches out of the shower for a towel hanging on a nearby hook. The movement is fluid, practiced, as though he’s done this a thousand times before in a thousand different situations, always knowing exactly what to do to ease whoever he’s with. He turns off the water, and his touch is careful when he wraps the towel around me. It’s not just the towel that feels like a protective layer, but also the way he handles me. Soft. Noninvasive. Respectful.
Such a huge contrast to mere minutes ago.
He leans in and presses a gentle kiss to my forehead, long enough to feel reassuring but not overbearing. Then, just as quietly as he wrapped me in the towel, he steps out of the shower, leaving me with the privacy I need.
The moment he’s out of the shower, he pulls his soaking-wet shirt off and glances down at it, his brow furrowing as if he’s suddenly at a loss for what to do next. It’s a small, humanizing moment, one that makes me realize he’s not as infallible as I sometimes imagine him to be. Even Saint, with all his control and confidence, doesn’t know what to do with a wet shirt.