Page 60 of Because I Liked A Boy
His head snaps up. Green eyes lock on mine. A slow smirk spreads when he clocks me—naked, flushed, caught.
“Well, well.” His laugh rumbles. “Could’ve sworn I just heard my good girl talking about drowning in me. That right, princess?”
Heat scorches my cheeks. He shakes his head like he can’t believe his luck. “Fuck, you make this too easy.”
His gaze drags down my body again. The smirk deepens but something raw flickers under it, like seeing me bare rattles him more than he’ll admit.
“Climb in,” he says, leaning back and pushing a hand through his hair. “If you keep standing there naked, looking like that, I’m never going to clean you up.”
The words punch heat through me. My feet move like he’s pulling strings. He straightens and holds out his hand because he can’t not touch.
My fingers slide into his. Warm, rough, steady. An anchor as I step in. The water is hot, steam curling, but it’s nothing compared to the burn of his stare. I move slow, not from nerves—though my heart is frantic—but because I want him to see all of me.
His breath catches when I sink my first leg. When I lower the other, his grip tightens until his knuckles pale.
A low groan spills from him. My thighs press together under the water.
Holy fuck. He’s groaning because of me.
I slide down to settle. His gaze never wavers, hungry and intent. A growl roughens his voice. “You’re killing me, princess.”
A smirk tugs at my mouth. For once, I want to drive him mad.
If this is what being in too deep feels like, I never want to come up for air.
He kneels and takes the wash cloth. He dips it, wrings it slow, and brings it to my skin with reverence. He starts at my shoulder, drags the warm cloth over the curve and down my arm. His palm follows, smoothing the trail of water. It isn’t just cleaning. It’s worship.
“Relax,” he murmurs, dipping again, moving across my collarbone and over the swell of my breast. His thumb brushes the top curve by accident and his jaw tightens like not touching more is a fight.
I let my eyes fall shut and sink into the heat. Being taken care of has never felt like this—like being undone gently.
I shift and the water ripples. He exhales hard. “Christ, princess. You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
I meet his gaze. Green and burning, fixed on every inch he touches. The cloth drags lower, over my stomach. His palm follows, circling as if he’s memorising me. My chest heaves. My skin hums.
He slides closer on his knees. Dips. Wrings. Glides the cloth along my thigh. His jaw locks. Restraint frays.
“Hunter…” I whisper, not even sure what I’m asking.
“I said I’d clean you up,” he says, mouth tight. “And I will. Even if it kills me.”
He works down my legs, slow and sure. Calves. Ankles. He lifts my foot and runs his thumb along the arch. I gasp. He smirks, strained and wrecked, like touching me this way is his personal torture.
When he trails the cloth up the inside of my thighs, his breathing turns uneven. Sweat beads at his temple. His hand lingers and trembles, stopping just short of where I ache.
“Fuck,” he mutters, dragging the cloth higher and halting. “Do you know how hard it is to do this without—” He cuts off, jaw flexing.
He’s not just touching me. He’s fighting himself. Somehow the restraint is hotter than giving in.
I catch the damp edge of his hair and press a kiss to his temple.
He groans, low and guttural. “Princess…”
I don’t stop. I kiss the corner of his jaw, then his cheekbone. His breath stutters. By the time my lips brush the corner of his mouth, his hand has gone still on my thigh. Every muscle locks.
“Still in control, Hunter?” I whisper.
His growl vibrates against my lips. “You’re playing with fire, baby.”
