"Yours," I agreed, my voice husky.
He moved closer, crowding me back against the tile wall. The water cascaded over his shoulders, and I watched droplets run down his chest with fascination.
"Let me wash you," he said. "Let me take care of you."
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
He reached for the shampoo, pouring some into his palms, then worked it into my hair with strong, capable fingers. Thescalp massage was almost as good as sex—almost—and I let my head fall back as he worked.
"So much tension in your shoulders," he murmured, his hands sliding down from my hair to knead the tight muscles. "When's the last time you relaxed, baby girl?"
I couldn't remember. Years, maybe. I'd been operating in survival mode for so long that tension was just my baseline.
"That's what I thought." He guided me under the spray to rinse the shampoo, his hands still working magic on my neck and shoulders. "You carry stress like armor. Like if you're tense enough, nothing can hurt you."
"Does it work?" I asked.
"No, baby. It just means you hurt yourself instead."
He was right. Of course he was right. I'd been hurting myself for years with impossible standards and punishing work schedules and the constant pressure to be perfect.
His hands slid lower, soaping my back, my waist, the curve of my ass. The touch started as caretaking but quickly shifted possessive.
"Can't touch you without wanting you," he admitted, his palms cupping my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples. "Can't be near you without needing to fuck you again."
"Then fuck me."
He groaned, spinning me to face him. His mouth crashed down on mine in a kiss that was pure hunger, pure need. His hands roamed my slick, soapy skin, learning every curve, every response.
"Want you in my bed," he said against my lips. "Want to take my time with you. Learn every sound you make, every spot that drives you crazy."
"Let’s go."
His eyes flared. "Shower first. Then bed. Then I'm going to fuck you so thoroughly you forget your own name."
He finished washing me with hands that shook slightly, his control clearly hanging by a thread. I returned the favor, soaping his hard body, learning his scars with my fingers and my mouth.
By the time we finally turned off the water, we were both panting and desperate.
Sam wrapped me in a towel—huge and soft and nothing like the camping supplies we'd been using—and carried me to the sleeping loft above the main room.
His bed was massive, probably custom-built for his height, with windows on two sides offering views of the mountain. The bedding was simple but quality—down comforter, soft sheets, everything in shades of gray and blue.
He laid me on the bed like I was precious, his eyes roaming over my towel-wrapped body with such intensity, I shivered.
"I'm going to unwrap you now," he said, his voice dropping to that commanding tone that curled my toes. "And then I'm going to spend the next hour showing you exactly what it means to be mine."
"Just an hour?" I teased.
His smile was wicked. "You're right. Better make it two."
He pulled away my towel with deliberate slowness, revealing my body inch by inch. The way he looked at me—like I was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen—made me feel like a goddess instead of a stressed-out lawyer who hadn't been to the gym in months.
His hands skimmed up my calves, my thighs, parting my legs. Then his mouth was on me, and coherent thought became impossible. He licked and sucked and used his tongue in ways that had me writhing and gasping his name. He worked me with the same focused intensity he brought to everything else, learning what made me moan, what made me come off the bed with a scream, and what made me fist my hands in his hair and beg.
"Sam, please—I need—"
"I know what you need." He pushed two fingers inside me while his tongue circled my clit, and I shattered.
