Tall, Tatted and Tempting(61)

He picks up on my feelings, though, because he walks across the room and brackets my face with his fingers. “I’m sorry you were the one here when he got sick.”

I’m not. Not at all. I’m so glad I was here. I’m glad I could help. In more ways than one. “I am glad I was here. Wouldn’t trade the time I spent with his head on my lap for anything.” I can’t bite back my grin.

“I love you so fucking much,” he says. Then he bends his head and kisses me. His lips are soft, but urgent.

Tears well in my eyes, because I know this is our last day together. “I need to take a shower,” I say, stalling. I need a moment to compose myself. Not to mention that we spent the night at the hospital. I need to get cleaned up.

He nods and points at my arm. Shoot. I have a new tattoo and a bandage. “You can get it wet if you take the bandage off,” he says.

I don’t want to take the bandage off. “Can we just wrap it up?”

“Why don’t you want me to see it?” He’s looking deep into my eyes. I can’t explain it to him.

He heaves a sigh and comes back with some plastic wrap and some waterproof tape. He wraps my arm and says, “There. That’ll keep it completely dry.”

I’m not worried about getting it wet. I’m worried about the bandage falling off. “Thank you,” I say. I kiss him quickly. “I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

I take off my clothes and step into the shower. Warm water sluices over me and I realize that the fear in my heart has been replaced by longing. I was afraid to love Logan. Now I long to love Logan. And I do. And always will. But I have to give him up to protect something precious to him. I know that. I don’t have a choice. The warm water steams over my back, and I lean both forearms against the wall, trying to compose myself. Tears track down my face, melding with the water. There’s a draft and I feel the curtain move behind me.

I jump when Logan steps into the bath with me. His body envelopes mine, completely naked. “Logan!” I screech.

A warm chuckle makes his chest move against my back. “I don’t want to be away from you,” he says, pushing my wet hair to the side so he can press his lips to my naked shoulder.

He’s hard against my bottom, the rigid length of him teasing me. He takes my washcloth from my hands and gets it soapy. Then he drags it down my spine, slowly, ever so slowly. My breath catches in my throat when he abandons the washcloth and runs his soapy hands over my bottom, squeezing my butt cheeks in his gentle grip. He doesn’t leave a spot unwashed, his hands finding every crevice and dip, all the way down the backs of my legs, across the backs of my knees, which I had no idea were so ticklish, and over the heels of my feet. I stand there with my eyes closed, unable to look at him. He stands back up and lathers the soap in his palms again. This time, he doesn’t take the washcloth at all. He uses his fingers to skim my body. His fingers tickle all the way down my left arm, all the way to my fingertips. Strong fingers lace with mine and he gives me a squeeze before he turns me to face him.

I keep my eyes closed. I am overwhelmed by what he’s doing to me. If I look into his eyes, I don’t know what will happen right now. I might combust. I might shatter. I might break. I might just come from the sheer pleasure of his touch. I can feel his smile against my shoulder as he presses his lips there. His hands circle my breasts, and gentle thumbs stroke across my nipples, which are straining for his touch. I arch my back, pressing my breasts into his hands and I hear him chuckle. My eyes fly open.

His hair is wet and he’s dripping with water. I lean forward and lick his chest. He groans, freezing. His fingers pluck at my nipples, elongating them with his gentle tugs. “Logan,” I cry. He looks up at me and stills.

“Did you say something?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. Laughter breaks from my throat. “I can’t even think. You want me to repeat myself?”

“I felt you say something,” he says. He grins. “I just wanted to be sure you’re all right.”

I lay my head back against the wall. I’ll never be all right again. He rubs his soapy hands over my belly, and then his fingers dip into the cleft between my legs. I reach for his shoulders.

He picks up the wash cloth again, and gets it sudsy. “Open your legs for me,” he orders, tapping my inner thigh.

This is more intimate than anything I ever dared dream of. He uses the wash cloth to gently clean between my legs. He spreads me open with his fingertips, growls low in his throat, and washes me clean. The cloth drags across my clit, and my knees almost buckle. He throws the cloth to the side and uses his soapy hands to slide across my folds, front and back, front and back, front and back. “Logan!” I cry. This time, I tap on his shoulder. He looks up and grins. “Something wrong?” he asks. He strokes across my clit again, and then opens me to the spray of the shower. His fingers rub back and forth until I’m no longer slippery. Or at least not slippery from the soap.