Page 19 of Coyote

He turned on the shower and tested the water against the inside of his wrist. When it warmed, he wet a cloth, soaped it, and stepped between my knees.

I reached for the cloth, but he slapped my hand away.

"I can wash myself."

"I know."

"I've been doing it for years."

"Today it's mine to do."

He started with my face. Dirt came off my jaw and darkened the cloth. He rinsed it and worked down my neck, under my beard, over my shoulders. Every pass stopped at the edge of a dressing and worked around it, clear of the stitches and the broken skin.

I held myself rigid while he washed my chest. He dragged the cloth through the hair on my chest and took his time about it.

When he reached the bruises along my ribs, his other hand came up behind me to brace my back.

"You can lean on me," he said.

"I'm fine."

"I didn't ask. Lean."

He pushed until some of my weight came forward into his palm, and my throat tightened.

I'd spent years washing other people. I'd washed men in tents and kids at the clinic, and I'd washed Little John through that last week, when standing up in a shower took more than he had left.

I knew where to put my hands when somebody else needed me.

Sitting naked on a bench while Coyote washed me, I couldn't find a place for them, so I settled them on my thighs.

He cleaned my arms, then knelt to wash my legs, using his palm to shield the dressing at my thigh from the spray. When he finished, he rinsed the soap away and turned off the water.

With the shower off, the spring behind him was the loudest thing in the room, and my own breathing came in under it.

Coyote put the cloth aside and leaned between my knees, pressing his face against my throat. His nose dragged up the side of my neck, over the pulse, behind my ear, back down to my shoulder. Then his tongue took the same path, and I shuddered under him.

A low groan came out of me.

"Mm." His lips moved against my skin. "Better."

"What are you doing?"

"Checking."

"For what?"

"You smelled like blood before." He licked the hollow of my throat. "Now you smell like you."

His hand slid up my chest and closed lightly around the front of my neck. My pulse jumped against his palm.

"You like me touching you," he said.

"Yes."

He climbed into my lap, knees settling on either side of my hips, careful of my ribs. He hooked his arms behind my neck and pressed his nose to my pulse again, breathing slowly.

My hands closed around his hips and my thumbs nearly met over his stomach. I could have lifted him one-handed, but he sat on me like I was the smaller man.