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“I’m going to bathe you,” he announced, as if daring me to say no.
There’s no chance I’d stop those big hands from touching my body.
I watch as he squirts some liquid soap into his palm, rubbing his hands together before running them over my arms and abdomen.
I lean back against the wall and close my eyes, relishing the sensation.
“Feels good?” he asks.
“Mmm-hmm.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I need to rethink how I categorize you in my head. You’re not just a control freak; you’re a dominator, too.”
He pauses, his hands still, and I open my eyes.
“What led you to that conclusion?”
For the first time since our post-sex conversation began, I smile. “You can’t even relinquish control over a simple shower.”
“Look at me,” he says, and I obey. “Is that what you want? To share control? Because I don’t think it is.”
I swallow hard, trying to disguise how much it shocks me that he can read me so well.
He’s used to dictating the terms of his life, and now that I’m part of it, he seems to assume we’ll live under his rule.
The truth is, I want that.
I don’t yet know how much I’m willing to yield, but if I’m honest, it feels good to have someone making decisions for me sometimes. I don’t aspire to be dead weight, but having a shoulder to lean on is comforting. Being strong all the time is exhausting.
“I trust you,” I say instead, not committing to a more definitive answer.
I hope he understands the weight of that statement for me. I hope he grasps how, after everything I’ve been through, trusting again is terrifying.
He doesn’t say anything but pulls me into a kiss. Then, he turns me to face the wall and washes my back, running his hands over my breasts, hips, and ass.
I try to suppress my moans, but I can’t, and he notices.
He moves my hair aside and bites my earlobe. “I won’t hurt you or betray your trust.”
And then, without giving me time to think, he spreads my legs with his feet and enters me.
I press my hands against the wall to brace myself because his thrusts are deep and vigorous. I know this won’t be slow sex; it’s wild, and I arch my body to take more of him.
He growls against my neck and tilts me forward, gripping my hips. His hand slides to my abdomen, finding my pleasure point.
It doesn’t take long for me to come undone, and when he feels my release, he lets himself go as well.
His hands cover mine on the shower wall, and for several minutes, we don’t move, savoring the connection.
When I finally turn to face him, I say, “My turn.”
He looks confused, but I know what I want.
Instead of putting soap in my hands, I squirt it directly onto his muscular body, rubbing and massaging his skin as he did mine. I try to focus on the task, not on the fact that he’s watching me as if trying to decipher my every move.
“It’s rude to stare at people like that,” I joke.