Hopeless (Chestnut Springs, #5)(63)

I’m both relieved by his restraint and aching for his fingers inside me. To feel so full like I did all those nights ago.

But he doesn’t cross that line. He lathers the soap, rubbing it back over the same spots with a wet hand. I feel myself clench and release when he gets dangerously close to where I want him. My arousal is only disguised by the fact that we’re both drenched with lavender soap and bath water right now.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” he asks as he places the soap down and dips the razor in the bath.

I gaze back at him, eyes wide, lips parted. His chiseled body kneels between my spread thighs, and the way he handles me is so sure, so caring. How could I be anything but okay with this? “I trust you,” I reply quietly. As the words land, he jolts slightly.

Without saying a word, he dips his head closer and uses his fingers to spread my lips in a way that makes the razor land in flat, even strokes.

My head tips back and my eyes flutter shut. “Fuck,” I murmur as he grips me. The pressure of his fingertips, the scrape of the blade, the knowledge that his face is right there.

When he finishes tidying one side, he methodically moves on to the next. Large, deft fingers spread and manhandle me as he fixes up the spots I failed to reach. I can feel myself leaking, but I ignore it. There’s no way he can tell.

I feel like I could come just from his proximity. But I don’t. I focus on breathing, on not shaking. I focus on willing one of his fingers to slip inside me—for him to cross that line.

For him to be even more impulsive than he’s already been by crawling into this bath with me.

“There,” he announces roughly, voice echoing in the steamy bathroom as he massages the top portion of hair that remains. His jaw is set tight, brow lightly furrowed. “Have you decided what I’m doing up here?”

“Oh, you’re doing that part, are you?”

He doesn’t even pretend to make eye contact with me when he responds, “When I start a job, I finish it.”

“Okay.”

“What shape?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even think I care.” All I care about is coming. Based on the way Beau’s eyes are eating me up right now, I don’t think it matters at all.

“Triangle,” he bites out. “If you hate it, you can easily change it to a strip.”

“Or you can.” My voice sounds thick, deep—not my own. I feel like someone else right now. Someone beautiful and powerful, someone sure of herself and what she wants.

And what I want is him.

He swallows and nods, then moves in closer. My hand grips the tiled edge, the sharp corner digging into my palm. The huge diamond on my ring finger sparkles under the light from above.

“Or I can,” he repeats as he glides the razor over the top horizontal line.

“Next time,” I add, making his eyes finally snap up to mine.

“Next time,” he repeats, and it feels like an agreement. It feels like a moment where we both realize this pull between us is stronger than either of us can resist.

Or maybe in this moment, we both realize that neither of us cares to struggle. We’ve both struggled enough already.

His gaze drops along with his head, and he gets to work.

Beau is meticulous, hand moving between us, pressing each leg open wider, and then resting on my lower stomach. His face is close, so close. He looks like an artist painting at an easel or something. It almost makes me laugh, because what else is a girl supposed to do in this situation? Tossed so far out of her realm of experience by the gruff military man.

I almost don’t recognize myself.

After he shaves my pubic hair into a symmetrical triangle with military precision, he scoops up water, washing away all traces of soap and hair.

The pads of his fingers trail delicately over my slit, and I shiver. A moan tears from my lips, loud enough to hear over the swish and trickle of water. My head tips back and I try to hide my embarrassment behind closed eyelids.

I swear he growls. My legs try to clamp shut in response, but he catches them first.

“If I leave this bathroom right now, what are you going to do?”

Heat lashes at my cheeks, spilling down over my chest. My breasts are full, my nipples peaked almost painfully.

“Tell me, Bailey. I wanna hear it. I can see you. You’re making a mess on the edge of my tub. If I get up and walk out right now, what am I gonna hear you doing from the other side of that door?”

My mind races. A little part of me wants to clam up on him right now. Tap out. This water feels too deep for someone who hasn’t spent much time swimming.

But I’m a survivor. And I want this.

“Probably play with myself until I come with your name on my lips,” I admit in a hushed tone.

His hands move up to my inner thighs, one on each side, then his thumbs press up over my outer lips.

He’s teasing me.

I arch my spine, teasing right back.

“Seems unfair that you get to play with this pretty pussy when I’m the one who’s been down on his knees doing all the hard work.”

One thumb goes higher, brushing over my clit.

I cry out.

“Don’t you think that seems unfair, Bailey?”

Another swipe.

“Yes!” My voice is a desperate whine.

“Ask me to play with your pussy. Let me hear it.”