“To get your shampoo.” I grab the bottle out of the massive walk-in shower, then head back to him, setting the stool behind him. Macon’s shoulders tense. “You need your hair washed, remember?”

“All rational thought has left my head at the moment.”

I laugh, but he doesn’t move as I fiddle with the handheld sprayer by the faucet. Warm water jets out. “Lean forward a little, if you can,” I tell him, feeling the odd need to speak in hushed tones.

Macon lets out a little sound of pained protest but rises enough that the water can flow down his back instead of out of the tub. It’s a good reminder that as much as I want to touch him, and as much as he obviously wants me to, he’s also in pain. As gently as I can, I rinse through his hair, holding a hand by his forehead to keep the water out of his eyes. I feel his careful breaths, almost as if he’s afraid to move, and the heat of him. God, there’s so much heat coming off him.

When his hair is wet, I turn off the taps. “Rest back again.”

He does and then groans when I start massaging the shampoo into his hair. The sound goes straight to my core. I work slowly. Slower than I should, but it feels good to have my hands on him. My fingers glide over the hard curve of his skull, down to the thick cords of his neck.

“God,” he whispers. “Please don’t stop.”

His muscles are so strong here that it hurts my fingers to dig in, but his noises of pleasure and the way he leans into my touch keep me going.

Foam rises around my hands; water trickles down the tan column of his neck to wander over the hills and valleys of his wide-set shoulders. My lips swell with the need to follow those waterdrops, press against his wet skin. I bite the inside of my cheek.

Macon sighs, his lids lowering, and I move closer, my breasts hitting the back of the tub. I push along the rise of his shoulders. They’re like silk over granite, slippery wet and warm. He grunts, and I do it again. He leans into my hands, whimpering softly. I take the moment to rise and turn on the taps again. We don’t speak as I rinse the shampoo from his hair.

It’s a strange thing, taking care of him this way. I’m turned on—more than I thought I could be. It’s a low hum in my body, the lush swelling of my breasts, of my sex. It’s in the painful tenderness in my nipples and the sensitive edges of my lips. I want to savor him like I do fine dark chocolate, letting each bite melt on my tongue, lingering over the delicious taste of it.

But that isn’t what I find strange or surprising. It’s that I like taking care of him. Behind all the bright and searing lust is warmth and contentment. He is in pain, and I am helping to take some of the burden off. That lovely homey feeling tempers everything and makes it possible for me to keep my focus.

The legs of the stool scrape overloud as I move around to his side and face him again. Lids half-lowered, he waits, his breath coming in soft, barely there pants. Everything in me draws tight. My hand drifts to the hard swells of his pecs. Macon visibly twitches at the contact, but neither of us says a word.

Slowly, lightly, I stroke his chest, teasing him. Lord, but he’s built on a heroic scale, solid and thick. My fingertip brushes his beaded nipple, and he grunts low and tight. I swirl around the tip, making him shiver despite the steam coming off his wet skin.

He licks his parted lips but stays utterly still, taking my torture. The trickle of water, the harsh rasp of our agitated breathing surrounds us. I slide my hand lower, idly feeling all that smooth, slick skin. And then I see it—the wide, engorged tip of his cock rising out of the dissipating bubbles to lie hard and needy on his flat stomach.

We both still. I am looking at Macon Saint’s cock. I go a little light headed. Macon’s dark eyes shine with both a question and a dare. He’s coiled so tightly his body hums with it, but he doesn’t move. He won’t unless I ask him to.

I slip my hand beneath the warm water. He’s hot and thick and fits against my palm just right. A low, tortured groan leaves him, and his head falls back against the tub edge. Gently, I work him. And he takes it, his expression almost pained. He’s panting heavily now, flushed along the cheeks as his hips begin to rock helplessly in time with my strokes.