Page 135 of Almost Ravaged

“You’re sure?” He arches a brow. “It wouldn’t be fair to invite her in, only to change your mind and send her away if you start to feel low.”

The urge to run my hand through my hair gives me pause.

He’s right. I can’t let them in, then push them right back out if my grief rears its head unexpectedly.

I should tell them to go.

I should encourage him to take her far, far away from here.

But then Sawyer stirs in my arms again, rubbing her cheek against my chest and releasing a contented sigh.

Fuck it.

I’ll do everything I can to stave off my inner demons all night if it means I get to keep holding her like this.

“Stay,” I answer resolutely. “I want you both to stay.”

Chapter forty-seven

Sawyer

“Lean back, sweetheart.” Mercer glides his hands up my arms, causing the warm water around us to slosh.

Once I’m settled against his chest, I close my eyes and release a sigh.

Fuzzy satisfaction blankets my brain.

I am warm, I am safe, and I am so thoroughly sated.

I can’t remember the last time I felt this in my body. I’m mentally present and emotionally steady in a way I almost never am.

“You are perfection.” He drags his hands over my shoulders and down my sternum, cupping both breasts. He lingers there, playing with my piercings as he kisses along my neck and nips at my ear.

A shiver racks through me.

Mercer has tuned my body like a well-loved instrument over the last hour in the tub, scrubbing me clean while learning all my sweet spots and doubling down when he discovers a new way to please or tease me.

“You’re sure you don’t want me to wash your hair?” he murmurs.

I can’t help but smile, but I still shake my head.

There’s no fucking way.

We may be in a large, remodeled bathroom, but a spa, this isnot.

Noah has exactly one bar of soap. He fetched it from the shower, along with half a bottle of woodsy-smelling shampoo-conditioner-body wash combo.

The three-in-one cleanser smells delicious on him, but I absolutely will not put it in my hair.

“Thank you, but no.”

Mercer continues his ministrations, this time smoothing under my breasts.

As his hands come into view again, I marvel at his long fingers, enamored by the way the light dusting of hair over each knuckle contrasts against my pale, freckled skin.

Behind me, he shifts. Then his hands are on my shoulders, his thumbs digging into the sore muscles there. “You’ll let me do it someday, though, won’t you?”

I peek back up at him, fighting a grin. “Do you have a hair-washing kink, Professor?”