Page 102 of Secret Heir

Then he turns back to me, his eyes soft. “Let me help you.”

I nod, too tired to be self-conscious.

His hands are gentle as he tugs at my shirt and drops it to the ground. Then he unclasps my bra before he gently pulls down my pants. My underwear slips down my legs while he kneels before me.

There’s nothing sexual about it. Just tenderness.

He helps me into the shower, and the hot water feels like absolution, washing away the fear and stress. I stand there for a long moment, letting it soak into my skin, my muscles, my bones.

Then Maksim is there, and I hear the rustle of fabric as he strips off his clothes. Through the steam, I watch him undress as all his clothes are discarded on the bathroom floor. He slides open the glass door and steps into the shower with me, completely naked.

The water streams over his broad shoulders, plastering his dark hair to his head, running in rivulets down the planes of his chest and abs. He’s beautiful—all hard muscle and masculine strength—and the way he’s looking at me makes my breath catch.

“What are you doing?” I ask, though my voice comes out breathless rather than surprised.

“Taking care of you.” He reaches for the shampoo and pours some into his palm. “Turn around.”

I do, and his hands are in my hair, massaging my scalp, working the shampoo through my long dark strands. It feels incredible—not just the physical sensation, but the care behind it. The intimacy behind his simple act. I stifle a moan, my knees buckling.

His fingers work through my hair with slow, deliberate movements, finding all the tension points, working them loose. I can feel the stress starting to drain from my body with each stroke. I let my head fall back slightly, giving him better access, and hear his sharp intake of breath.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs, his lips close to my ear. “I used to dream about this. About taking care of you. Being allowed to touch you like this.”

I shiver despite the hot water, and his hands pause.

“Cold?”

“No.” My voice comes out husky. “Not cold at all.”

He resumes his movements, tilting my head back further to rinse the shampoo. His fingers are gentle but thorough, working out every trace of suds, and I’m acutely aware of his body behind me—the heat of him, the controlled strength in every movement.

When my hair is rinsed clean, he reaches for the conditioner and works it through the ends of my hair with the same careful attention. Then his hands slide to my shoulders, and I feel him step closer, his chest nearly touching my back.

“You carry so much tension here,” he says, his thumbs finding the knots in my shoulders and working them with firm pressure. A low moan escapes me and I hear a pleased growl come from Maksim. “Let me help.”

I let my head fall forward, giving him access, and he massages my shoulders, my neck, finding every point of tension and coaxing it loose. It’s almost meditative—the hot water, his hands, the steam surrounding us.

After he rinses the conditioner from my hair, he reaches for the body wash. He works up a lather, then his hands are on my shoulders again, sliding down my back in long, smooth strokes. I arch into him.

“I love touching you,” he murmurs. “Feeling your skin under my hands. Knowing you’re here with me.”

His hands slide lower, washing my lower back, the curve of my spine. Then lower still, to my hips, my bottom. His touch is thorough but reverent, like he’s memorizing every curve and inch of skin.

“Turn around,” he says softly.

I do, and the look in his eyes steals my breath. Desire. Awe. Like he can’t quite believe I’m standing here with him.

He pours more body wash into his hands, and then those hands are on me again starting at my shoulders and sliding down to my collarbone. His thumbs trace the delicate bones there, and I watch his face as he touches me and see the concentration and tenderness.

Then he lowers toward my breasts. His thumbs brush over my nipples, and I gasp, need pulsing nearly painfully between my legs. The sensation shoots straight through me, pleasure mixed with that sweet sensitivity.

“Does that hurt?” he asks immediately, concern flashing in his eyes.

“No.” I’m breathing faster now. “No, it feels…it feels good. Everything is just more sensitive.”

His eyes darken. “Everything?”

I nod, unable to speak.