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She shakes her head, a slow smile spreading across her face. "That was so much better that I could have even imagined."

I kiss her again. This young woman with her romance novels and candles has somehow slipped past every defense I've built, igniting something I thought had died in that fire five years ago.

And for the first time since then, I'm not afraid of getting burned.

seven

Sheryl

There'samomentrightafter everything changes when you're suspended between who you were and who you're becoming. I'm caught in that moment now, cradled against Alex's chest as he carries me from the kitchen through the hallway of his meticulously organized cabin.

My body aches in unfamiliar ways—pleasant reminders of what just happened between us. I press my face against his neck, breathing in his scent.

"You still smell like smoke," he murmurs against my hair, not unkindly. "From the fire."

"Sorry," I mumble, suddenly self-conscious. "Hospital showers aren't exactly spa quality."

He nudges open the bathroom door with his shoulder. "Neither are mine, but they'll do. Sorry I didn’t offer this last night." His voice is gentle as he sets me on my feet, keeping a steadying hand at my waist when my legs wobble beneath me.

"Are you sore?" he asks, his eyes searching my face with a concern that makes my chest tighten.

"A little," I admit. "But the good kind."

Alex leans over to start the bath, checking the temperature. Steam begins to rise as the large claw-foot tub fills.

"You think of everything, don't you?" I observe, watching him add what looks like epsom salts to the water.

"Force of habit." He tests the water again. "This will help with any soreness."

When he straightens and turns to me, there's a moment of awkwardness. We've just been as intimate as two people can be, yet standing naked in his bathroom feels somehow more vulnerable.

He seems to sense my discomfort. "I can leave if you want."

"Stay," I interrupt, surprising myself with the request. "Please."

When the tub is full, he helps me in, the warm water enveloping my body like a caress. I can't hold back a grateful sigh as the heat begins to work on my sore muscles.

Alex kneels beside the tub, rolling up his sleeves. He picks up a washcloth and soap, working up a lather between his large hands.

"May I?" he asks, holding up the soapy cloth.

I nod, unable to form words around the emotion lodged in my throat. This gentle care after such intensity feels more intimate somehow than what we shared in the kitchen.

He starts with my shoulders, strong hands working the cloth in gentle circles over my skin. His touch is methodical but tender, washing away the lingering scent of smoke and hospital antiseptic.

"Close your eyes," he instructs softly, and I obey as he carefully washes my face, the cloth passing gently over my eyelids and cheeks.

"Lean forward."

I comply, hugging my knees as he washes my back with the same gentle thoroughness. When his hands move to my breasts, his touch remains caring instead of sexual, but I still feel my body responding.

"Relax," he murmurs, noticing my tension. "I'm just taking care of you."

The simple statement brings unexpected tears to my eyes. When was the last time someone took care of me, really took care of me? Not since I left home for college at eighteen, determined to prove my independence.

He works his way down, lifting each of my legs to wash them thoroughly. When he reaches the apex of my thighs, his movements become even gentler, the cloth carefully cleaning the evidence of our passion from my tender flesh.

I hiss slightly at the contact, still sensitive, and his eyes immediately find mine. "Too much?"