Page 106 of Pretty Mess

“I’m sure you can, but not tonight, mister.”

“Why?”

I lean into the shower to start the water. “You’re not doing this on your own.”

“I’ve been showering alone for a long time.”

“I’m sure you have, factoring in your age.”

“What doesthatmean?”

The question is so indignant that I chuckle. “Nothing,” I say airily.

“Why are you taking your clothes off?” he asks in a slightly more interested tone.

I throw my T-shirt onto the counter and start unfastening my jeans. “Getting naked. What does it look like?”

“My next question is why?”

“To help you in the shower.”

“I’m not sixty.”

“Well, not quite yet.” I snort at the look on his face and then sober. “You’ve been hurt,” I say simply. “And you’ve only got one working arm. There’s no way you’re doing this on your own.”

Finally naked, I step closer, noticing with interest his cock stirring. I look up at him, and he shrugs. “I’d have to be dead not to respond to you naked,” he says.

That pleases me, and I give him an approving grin. “I want you to know that I douched earlier should you change your mind about a fuck.”

“What a simplycharmingconversation. I’m so sad that it appears you wasted your time.”

“Don’t be. I watchedEastEnderswhile I did it.”

“This is the most erotic moment of my life.”

“Having a TV in the bathroom is lush.”

“I shall install them in all my properties should you ever feel the urge to visit them.”

“I’m afraid I’d be drawing my pension by the time I visited them all.”

He gives a pointed look at my clothes that are strewn over the counter.

“Hey, at least they aren’t on the floor,” I say crossly.

“Thank Jesus and all the baby angels.”

“Into the shower, Captain Sarcastic.”

I hover at his side, biting my lip until he’s finally in the stall. He leans back against the wall, sighing. Despite his humour, he’s now sheet white, his lips drawn tight in pain.

“Let’s make this quick,” I say gently. I reach out and pump my body wash, filling my palms with the scented gel. I start to wash him, rubbing along his skin gently, avoiding the bruises and cuts, until the shower stall fills with the scent of coconut.

He remains quiescent under my touch. The startled pleasure in his face is as clear as if he’s shouted it.

“That’s nice,” he whispers.

I smile sadly. When was the last time this man was touched for no other reason than kindness? I make my touch extra gentle, kneeling to soap his hairy legs, and it’s a symptom of how bad he feels that he doesn’t even make the requisite joke.