“Kill your resistance, yes. You’ll thank me later.”

“I’m sure.”

Water rained, and steam thickened the air. He stripped out of his boots, jeans and weapons. Lots and lots of weapons. Daggers. Throwing stars. More daggers. A gun. Another gun. Ammo. The famous minicrossbow. More daggers. Metal clanged against metal, his every movement fascinating me.

“Your turn,” he said, his voice a mix of need and command.

I toyed with the ends of my hair. “Can I ask you a question first?”

“You just did. Strip.”

Funny man. I eased to my feet. “Would you have waited one year and three months for your other girlfriends?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Either way I answer that, I’m going to sound like a douche-purse.”

See? That word was going to follow me forever. “So don’t add ‘knocked into a coma’ to the description, and give me the truth.”

“Fine. No. No, I wouldn’t have. I would have moved on. And before you rapid-fire more questions, no, I won’t get tired of waiting for you, and no, I won’t move on from you.”

Reason number seventeen was about to come into play. “Why wait with me?” My gaze raked over him, and my cheeks heated. “It’s clear you’d rather not.”

“Because you’re mine. Not just now but always. I want to do what’s right by you. I will do what’s right.”

“The others were yours, too,” I said. Steam continued to thicken the air, creating a dreamlike haze. “Once.”

“They weren’t mine. They were...practice.”

Pretty words. They almost melted me. Almost. “How do you know I won’t become practice for some other girl?”

He stepped forward, pressing me against the bathroom counter, the hardest part of him nestling against the softest part of me. He tugged my shirt over my head. “You’re just going to have to trust me.” His fingers settled on the waist of my pants, unfastened the button. “Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He returned me to the counter and removed my boots.

I leaned back, bracing my weight on my elbows and lifting my hips to help him tug off my pants. I was sweet like that.

Once the denim cleared my feet, I was left in my bra, panties and arsenal. One by one, he discarded each of the weapons. I had just as many daggers, but no guns. He looked me over, then looked me over again, as if he couldn’t not do it.

“Does it bother you that I’m flat-chested?” I asked, the question slipping out before receiving permission from my brain.

His gaze jerked up, meeting mine. “You’re perfect. Why would you wonder something like that?”

“Something Gavin said—”

“Gavin commented on your chest?” Cole swiped up one of the daggers. “I will kill him. Will brutally murder him.”

I grabbed his wrist, pried the weapon from his kung-fu grip and laughed. “He didn’t say it to me. Or even about me.”

My very possessive, very protective boyfriend relaxed, but only slightly. “Fine. He can live.”

I stripped the rest of the way, and Cole urged me into the shower. He came in behind me, closing the door, sealing us inside, letting the steam thicken around us.

“I will be insanely mad if you ever come home with implants,” he said, maneuvering me under the spray of water. “I know I’m repeating myself, but you’re perfect.”

“Thank you.”

But he wasn’t done. “Any guy who makes a girl feel like she needs a bigger rack isn’t worth shi—crap.”

“Shi-crap?” I asked with another laugh, loving him more with every second that passed. He couldn’t be any cuter. “Sounds like something we should keep in our douche-purse.”

“Anyway. Someone should tell Gavin to get a penile implant,” Cole grumbled.

“Jaclyn is one step ahead of you. She told him to grow bigger balls.”

“Well, that’s a good start.”

Remaining behind me, Cole soaped me up...slowly...his hands lingering here, there. He washed and conditioned my hair, his body flush against mine, and it wasn’t long before the water wasn’t the only thing steaming up the walls.

“Your new tattoos have healed,” he said, kissing the base of my neck.

A shiver stole through me. “You still like?”

“Definitely.” His thumb traced the top ridges of my spine in a sensuous caress. “But you never told me what the phoenix means.”

“You can’t guess?”

“I can,” he said, nibbling my earlobe, “but I’d also like to hear it.”

It was difficult to get my brain to work, but I somehow managed to explain my thought process—that he’d stood in the fire with me, holding my hand, helping me rise from the ashes of my other life. When I finished, he turned me and pressed a soft kiss onto my lips.

“You make me happy,” he said.

“Let’s see if I can make you even happier.” I took the soap from his hands and cleaned him as slowly and thoroughly as he’d cleaned me, adoring every inch of him.

After I rinsed him off, I massaged shoulders granite-hard with tension and moved my attention to his chest, tracing each of his tattoos...delving lower, to his stomach. A stomach that quivered, making my breath catch—and my stomach quiver.

“This was a bad, bad idea.” Eyes blazing, he backed me into the wall. “One of the worst we’ve ever had.”