He headed down the hall, toward her room. “Tatum?”
He knocked, pushing her door open to find it empty. That was when he heard the telltale sound of water running. She was in the shower? He went back out into the hall and paused. The bathroom door was cracked. He’d take that as an invitation.
He opened the door, greeted by a cloud of steam, and pushed it closed behind him. Her red tunic lay on the floor. Her leggings, boots, a lacy black bra and a scrap of fabric he assumed was her underwear led the way to the glass-enclosed shower.
“You hoping I’d wash your back?” he asked, his throat tight.
She glanced over her shoulder, smiling sweetly. “To start, maybe.”
“To start?” he asked.
“You said we had all night.” He heard the waver of her voice and knew she wasn’t as brave as she was acting.
He nodded and stripped quickly, leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor before stepping into the shower behind her. He stepped forward, shuddering as he pressed against her. There was no way she could miss just how much he wanted her. The length of him was throbbing, pulsing against the soft curve of her ass. He leaned in, his chest flush with the wet skin of her back. He groaned as he pressed an openmouthed kiss against the base of her neck.
She shivered.
He reached around her, pouring body wash into his palm and lathering his hands. His palms slid up her arms and over her shoulders. He took his time, kneading her skin with strong fingers. She sighed, her head falling against his shoulder as he massaged the length of her back. He washed her, his hands slipping and sliding over every inch of her. He didn’t linger in one place, but used his touch to heighten her awareness...and his. His hand slid between her legs, barely cupping the soft skin before sliding up her stomach to cradle her breasts. Her nipples were tight peaks, begging for his touch. He almost caved, pushed her against the wall and slid home. But he didn’t. Not yet. She felt so damn good, the lather of the body wash making her slippery in his hold. When his hands clasped her hips, he ground against her.
Her hand came around, gripping his lower back as she arched into him. She turned her head, looking at him with unfiltered hunger.
She turned in his hold, pressing herself against him and twining her arms around his neck. Her teeth nipped his lower lip, her fingers curling in his hair to pull his head toward hers. He didn’t hold back. His tongue slid between her lips while his mouth sealed hers.
She broke away, gasping. “My turn.” She poured body wash onto her hands.
He stood still, watching as she explored his body with her hands and eyes. She turned him, kneading his back and shoulders, thighs and hips. Her teeth grazed his hips, her tongue traced his spine, and her hands came around him, clasping the length of him with slippery hands. He shuddered, giving in to the onslaught of sensations her hands and mouth unleashed. She turned him once more.
He hadn’t expected her to be on her knees, to have her soft hands clasp the rigid length of him and bring it to her mouth. But the silk of her lips slipping over his tip, the wet heat of her mouth encasing him, made him groan out loud. With one hand she braced herself on his thighs, and the other gripped him firmly in place, letting her set a rhythm both sweet and torturous. Every stroke of her tongue and caress of her lips had him teetering closer to the edge. Did she know how close he was? He pressed his hands against the side of the shower, steadying himself.
“Stop, Tatum,” he ground out. He had to stop her. Had to get control. But, when it came to Tatum, he had no control.
“Stop?” she asked, breathless. “You’re not enjoying it?”
He heard the vulnerability in her voice and ached from it. He groaned. “I am. Too much.”
“I don’t want to stop,” she answered, drawing him deep into her mouth. Her hands slid up the backs of his thighs to grip his hips and he was done for. His climax hit hard. Wave after wave of pure, raw pleasure rocked through him. His moan tore from his throat and echoed in the steam-filled shower.
When he opened his eyes, she was standing before him—a huge smile on her face. He was gasping, his heart hammering and his lungs scrambling for air. She seemed pretty proud of her handiwork.
His hands slid down the side of the shower stall to cup her face. He wiped the water from her forehead and tilted her face back to kiss her. “You’re gorgeous,” he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
“I probably look like a drowned rat,” she argued, kissing him back.
“A gorgeous drowned rat,” he continued, pulling her against him. He groaned at the slip and slide of her skin against him.
“Spencer.” Her whisper was low, pleading.
He held her back, staring down at her. “Bed?” he asked, turning off the water without waiting for her answer.
He helped her out of the shower, wrapping a thick white towel around his waist before rubbing her down. She laughed at the thorough job he made of it, but she was dry and rosy when he was done.
Her fingers traced his side. “What kind of feather is this?” she asked, tracing the tattoo.
“An eagle feather,” he answered, twisting the water from her hair.
“Why an eagle feather?”
He glanced at her. “An eagle is a protector. He’s powerful in battle. Alert and watchful. I needed to feel that way after Russ was killed.” Instead of feeling like a failure.