Page 95 of Daddy's Little Christmas

He wasn’t wrong.

We were both rosy-cheeked and breathless when we tumbled inside, dragging in a gust of cold air and the sharp scent of snow. Our boots clattered onto the mat. Hats and gloves hit the bench.I stacked the split logs in the rack beside the fireplace, then went after him.

My fingers ached to touch him properly—skin, heat, the softness he gave me.

“Shower,” I said.

He arched a brow. “Is that an order?”

“It’s a safety recommendation,” I said, tugging a snow-packed curl off his forehead. “You’re freezing.”

His eyes swept down my body slowly, lingering. “Gonna make sure I don’t slip?”

“I’ll supervise,” I murmured.

Steam filled the bathroom fast, fogging the mirror and softening the light until everything looked a little hazy, a little dreamlike. We undressed without hurrying—layers sliding to the floor, socks being peeled off, skin emerging bit by bit. He shivered only once; I wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or the way I was watching him.

Under the spray, Rudy gasped as hot water hit his skin. His pale chest flushed pink instantly. Droplets clung to the soft red hair dusting his sternum before streaking downward in thin trails. His curls darkened, flattening against his forehead as he tipped his head back with a relieved sigh.

That sigh almost undid me.

I reached for the washcloth—not to hide my hands, but so I’d use them gently, not greedily.

“Turn around,” I said.

He did, bracing his palms lightly on the tile, the muscles in his back shifting as he adjusted his stance. Steam curled overhis shoulders. The faint bruises from last night’s sex were still visible, and something warm and possessive kicked low in my stomach.

I soaked the cloth thoroughly, rubbed the bar of cedar-scented soap against it until it foamed rich and white, then pressed it to the back of his neck.

He exhaled shakily.

The scent rose immediately—woodsy, clean, familiar. It curled through the steam, settling under my skin.

I washed him slowly this time. Real washing. Up and down the length of his spine. Over the narrow slope of his shoulders. Across the soft plane of his lower back.

He made a soft sound when I swept the cloth across the dimples above his ass.

“You’re warm now,” I murmured.

“Mm. Getting there,” he said, voice breathy and loose.

I rinsed the cloth and knelt, the tile warm against my knees. Water ran down his calves in white streams. His thighs tensed as I washed the backs of his legs—soap, water, slow circles—my knuckles brushing up toward the place where thigh met cheek. I didn’t linger. Not yet. Not until he told me he wanted more.

His fingers curled slightly against the tile, but he didn’t pull away.

“Lift your foot,” I said softly.

He did, trusting me entirely as I washed the arch of his foot, his heel, between each toe. He swayed a little and I steadied him with a palm to his hip.

“Turn,” I said gently. “Let me see you.”

He pivoted slowly, water coursing down his chest, dripping from the ginger trail of hair leading to his cock… and yes, even there, the red was deeper, darker, wet and inviting. The sight hit me with a rush I felt in every muscle.

I stood and cupped his cheek. “Arms up.”

He lifted them obediently. I soaped his arms, his shoulders, the dip of his collarbone. He was breathing faster now, each inhale lifting his chest into my hands.

When I washed his stomach, he sucked in a breath. When I dipped lower, to the soft skin just above his hipbones, his knees pressed together a little.