I drop the towel and cross to where he leans against the counter. “See something you like?”
“A mouthy woman who’s hell on my self-control.”
“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I catch sight of the lotion bottle in his hands. “I’m more than capable of putting on my own lotion.”
“I know.” He shrugs. “But I want to do it.” Devan levels a serious look at me. “Let me take care of you, Hazel. Even if it’s only for today.”
How can he say that when he’s been taking care of me in his own way for so long? Not like this, of course—not even in person most of the time—but there’s no denying that Devan has been looking out for me. He’s been a silent presence in my life for so long, one that I’ve told myself I hated, but have leaned on a little at the same time.
After today, that’s gone.
I don’t know what to think about that. So I don’t think about it at all. “Fine. Suit yourself.”
“I plan to.” He squirts lotion into his big palm and kneels before me.
It seems unnatural to have this man on his knees in front of me. He’s too dominant, too overpowering in a thousand different ways. But here he is, guiding me to put one foot on his knee and rubbing lotion into my skin with the utmost care, as if a rough move might tear me to pieces. It’s as agonizing as it is lovely, and I nearly bite my bottom lip bloody as he works his way up my leg to my hip, and then repeats the process with my other leg. No inch of skin is bypassed. Not my hips, my stomach, my breasts. Not my arms and back and ass.
When he finally sits back and looks at me, I’m shaking.
Of course I’m shaking. I always seem to be shaking around this man. The need is simply too much for one body to hold.
“I need you,” I whisper.
“You have me.”
For now.
The words neither of us speak, but that hang in the air between us all the same. The reminder that this is temporary and was always going to be.
Devan rises slowly to his feet. He’s still shirtless, and the casual intimacy of his being partially undressed in front of me is thrilling. He cups my jaw, lightly tracing his thumb over my cheekbone. “I like you like this.” Before I can laugh in his face—men always say that and they never really mean it—he continues. “I like the whole smoky eye thing, too.” The slightest hesitation, and then his voice deepens. “And you know very damn fucking well that I like your red lips.”
“Um.”
“Hush. I’m thinking.” He finally nods to himself. “I want to make your eyeliner run, birthday girl. Not because you’re sad—because you’re choking on my cock. First, we eat, then you can come back here and do whatever you want to your face. We’ll get started after that.”
I want to demand we get started right this second and not waste another minute with something as mundane as food, but from the stubborn set of his jaw, there’s no budging him on this. “If you insist.”
“I do.” He grabs the robe from the hook on the back of the door where I left it and drapes it around my shoulders. Devan drags knuckles over my skin as he closes the robe and knots it.
The damn tease.
I follow him. I’m not even shocked to find a cart with a selection of breakfast items on it, even when Devan pulls off the plate covers to reveal several of my favorites. Pancakes, a veggie omelet, and a mixed berry bowl. He catches me looking and shrugs. “I wasn’t sure what you’d like.”
I hadn’t been able to eat the morning after my twenty-second birthday. It’d felt like the worst hangover of my life, and not even my normal staples had sounded good. Devan had asked me my favorites that morning, too, had ordered them all on the off chance my stomach could handle them. Of course he’d remember them the same way he remembered my preferred way to have coffee.
I go with the omelet and eat slowly, watching him as I do. He’s digging his way through a plate of biscuits and sausage gravy that, honestly, looks really amazing. Devan catches me looking and gives a faint smile. “Want some?”
“If you’re willing to share.”
He grabs a small plate and transfers half a biscuit and plenty of gravy onto it. As he pushes it across the table to me, I’m once again struck by how domestic this is. This is something couples do, right? Share food easily. I can’t really remember ever doing it before. I’m a big believer of ordering what you want and sticking with that; if I want fries with my salad, I’ll order a side instead of picking them off my partner’s plate. Boundaries are important and the last thing I want to deal with is someone’s bitching.