Almost.
Giselle stood outside the door to the master bathroom, leaning against the wall, her head and hands resting on the doorframe as Troy ran the water in the tub. He was on his knees, in a gray tank top and tan cargo shorts, his bare feet still a little sandy from their walk on the beach. She loved watching the way his muscles rolled beneath his tan skin when he moved. Loved the way his hair flowed over the nape of his neck, all unruly and wavy from the wind.
But she found herself wishing it looked that way from having her hands fisting and combing and twisting the strands while they made love—something he’d deliberately avoided during their last two full days and nights together.
She scraped her lower lip between her teeth and scanned his body again. The dull ache that lived low in her pelvis sank between her legs and throbbed. God, she hoped he planned on getting in that tub with her and rocking her hard enough to spill water over the sides. Hope he came so hard the sound of his excitement echoed off all the marble and stone.
“El?”
“Huh?” her gaze snapped up to his, and she found him wearing an adorable little smirk.
“You didn’t answer, so I added bubbles.” He shrugged. “You used to love bubbles.”
A languid, sweet pleasure spread through her, one that had become familiar again over the last forty-eight hours. The best forty-eight hours she could remember in years. He’d made her feel so utterly treasured during their time together. So totally wanted, absolutely adored, completely cherished. She’d forgotten the comfort and joy of being so well loved and cared for. Of spending time with someone who understood her better than she understood herself.
But she still didn’t remember what it felt like to have him make love to her because he’d avoided any sexual contact with her since they’d arrived, and the encounters they’d had before had been about lust, not love. And Lord, how she longed to be reminded of how he could make love to her.
“I still love bubbles.” She strolled through the door and paused behind him to run her hands through his hair. It was thick and soft, and she loved the way it curved around her fingers.
He moved the water around with his hand. “It’s hot, but the steam will do your throat good.”
She’d forgotten until these last two days with Troy how much she used to depend on him as her sounding board, her barometer for everything from help with the lyrics in a song to the best business decision. Now, with all her experience in the business and the consultants surrounding her—her agent, her manager, her accountant, her sponsors—she didn’t feel like she needed that gauge anymore, but knowing he cared still felt good.
She reached for the oil on the bathroom counter, the one infused with lavender that she’d been using on his hands to help with healing, and poured some into her palm, then spread it over the skin of his neck and upper back exposed in the scoop of his tank. “And this will do your sore muscles good.”
While he played with the water temperature, Giselle sank her thumbs into the supple muscle of his neck and upper back, slowly kneading the tension away.
He groaned, and she smiled, happy he was letting her do something for him for a change. He’d been determinedly focused on her every need since they’d arrived at the house—her every need barring any sexual need.
She massaged the tension from his neck, starting at the base of his skull and continuing down until he lowered his forehead to his arm where it lay on the edge of the tub.
“God, you are good with your hands.”
She liked the want dripping from his words, and took a break from the massage to pull his tank toward his head.
“No.” He glanced over his shoulder. “This is your time. Get in the bath.”
“It’s not even half-filled yet, and if this is my time, I want to spend it with my hands on you.”
He relented with a groan, lifting his arms enough to let her pull the shirt off. She settled in behind him on her knees, poured more oil on his skin, and relished the warm, smooth, supple feel of him beneath her hands.
“It’s still hard for me to believe I’m touching you.” It was more of a thought than a comment.
He exhaled heavily, and his voice was thick and languid when he said, “Believe me, baby, I’m still waiting for someone to slap me awake from this dream.”
Her heart filled like a balloon and blossomed like a flower at the same time—a sensation she’d had a lot since seeing Troy again. And as she worked her way down his spine, avoiding the bruises he’d gotten during the cave collapse, his groans of pleasure gave her as much gratification as a cheering crowd.
“Your bruises look better,” she said. “All your cuts are healed over.”
He hummed in acknowledgment of the news.
“What do you want to do tonight?” she asked, hoping his answer held the words naked and under the covers and together.
Their first forty-eight hours alone together again after seven years apart had been spent very quietly. They hadn’t left the house other than to walk on the beach. Troy had regulated her talking time to make sure she rested her voice. And in between talks, they’d spent a lot of time kissing, cuddling, feeding each other, listening to music, or watching the waves. But one of Giselle’s favorite pastimes had become watching films Troy had worked on and hearing all his behind-the-scenes tales from his stunt work.
He exhaled a groan. “I can’t think when you’re doing that.”
“I can decide for us, if you want.”