A brutal kind of satisfaction splinters into my chest.
My forehead drops to hers, breathing her in, letting the moment fucking bury itself under my skin.
“You good, baby?” I whisper, brushing my thumb over her swollen, spit-slick lips. “You’re so fucking pretty like this.”
She nods, still breathless.
“Let’s go get you cleaned up, princess.”
carter
. . .
Idon’t even remember when he scooped me up, and honestly, I don’t care. One second, I was losing my goddamn mind on the tailgate of his truck, screaming his name like I’d forgotten how to breathe, and the next, I was pressed against his chest.
My cheek rests right over his heart, the soft, steady thud of it is the only thing cutting through the haze still clinging to me.
I don’t try to speak.
I just let him carry me like it’s the most natural thing in the world, because at this point, I’ve been absolutely destroyed in every way that matters. My limbs are jelly, my brain is soup, and all I can do is hold on to the warmth of his body. By the time my vision clears, I’m no longer outside.
The bathroom is glowing, with warm light spilling from the small lamp, casting shadows across the mirror. The scent of clean soap and whatever the hell masculine cologne Carter wears is already thick in the air, wrapping around me like a second skin. He sets me gently on thecounter, and even after he steps back to start the bath, his hand lingers on my hips.
This whole time he had a fucking bathtub?
I blink, then sit up straighter, ignoring how every muscle in my body screams in protest. “You’ve had a bathtub this whole time?” I screech out. “A sexy-ass tub that looks like it belongs in a damn romance novel, and you never said a fucking word?”
He glances over his shoulder, a smirk tilting in that infuriating way that makes my thighs clench all over again. “Didn’t think you’d survive it, princess,” he mutters, like that’s a normal response to a very real betrayal. “Figured I’d save it for when I made you see stars.”
I stare at him, jaw dropping slightly. “Jesus Christ. You’re lucky I can’t move, or I’d drown you in that tub myself.”
“You’d go first,” he fires back without missing a beat.
He turns the water off, returning to me without saying another word, peeling the clothes from my body one piece at a time, and somehow, it’s more intimate than sex.
Every motion is gentle, a stark contrast to his gruff exterior, like he’s memorizing every inch of skin as he exposes it, and I let him. Not because I’m weak, or still riding a post-orgasmic high, but because deep down, I want him to look. I want him to see all of me and still touch me like this—gentle, careful, like I matter.
When I’m bare, he takes one last breath, and helps me into the bath with both hands firm on my waist, guiding me into the tub. The second I sink beneath the heat, my whole body sighs in relief.
He kneels beside the tub silently, as he dips a cloth into the water and wrings it out with slow precision, dragging it over my arm in soft, steady strokes that make my chesttighten. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t crack a joke or tease me about being fucked dumb withjusthis tongue, which, frankly, is a missed opportunity.
“So,” I say, my voice cracking around the edges even though I try to sound casual, “is this, like, a standard package deal with you? Mind-blowing oral followed by a full spa service? Or am I just that special?”
He lets out a low chuckle, almost impossible to hear if I weren’t this close.
“Only for you, Catalina.”
Only for me? Fuck, what does that mean?
After he finishes washing me, Carter doesn’t say anything. He just pulls the plug from the tub and waits in silence as the water drains around me, his gaze lingering, which makes my skin prickle with gooseflesh. When the last bit of warmth disappears down the pipes, he grabs a thick towel and wraps it around me with careful hands, tucking it tight against my chest. His palms move slowly over my skin, drying me with the kind of patience that makes my throat feel tight and unfamiliar.
Once he’s satisfied, he leads me into his bedroom, his hand gentle at the small of my back. I just let him guide me, letting the quiet settle around us like fog, and for once letting my walls take a breath.
He sits me on the edge of his bed and steps between my knees, his brows furrowed as he reaches for a brush on the dresser. I blink in confusion, unmoving. I sit there patiently, letting him take the reins, letting him touch me in this strangely caring, tender way that I don’t quite know how to process.
The brush slides through my hair slowly. His fingers graze my scalp in soft, rhythmic movements, and the sensation is so soothing, it almost relaxes me. There’s nothingsexual about what he’s doing, and maybe that’s what makes it feel so devastating. It’s intimate in a way I didn’t expect, sinking deeper than any kiss or orgasm ever could, settling into the spaces inside me I usually keep locked up tight.
“I would’ve never guessed this soft side from you,” I say quietly, my voice barely above a whisper.
