“No,” he breathes. “It feels really good.”
Gripping each shoulder with one of my hands, I knead them back and forth. He hisses as I work out the tension that’s caused his body to be so rigid. Eventually, I move both hands to one side and massage until it’s more pliable. Then I move to the other.
“That feels really good,” he says, halfway grimacing as I work a knot lodged near his neck. “That spot right there has hurt forever.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He doesn’t answer, just bares more of his neck for my access.
“I want you to tell me things, Dom.”
“I’m not going to burden you with my shit.”
“It’s not a burden,” I sigh. “It’s a burden that you don’t tell me. It makes me feel . . .”
“What?”
I shrug, moving my hands down his spine. “It makes me feel like we’re never going to get there, you know?”
“I’m trying.”
“I know you are.” I press a kiss to the center of his back, resting my cheek against the warmth of his skin. “I’m trying too.”
We sit like that, the only sound coming from the droplets of water from the leaky faucet splashing into the tub. His heartbeat strums steadily, and I close my eyes and just feel the two of us.
“It should always feel like this,” I whisper. Pressing another kiss to the same spot, I pull back. “I like taking care of you. I want to take care of you.”
“I’m not a baby.”
“No, you’re not. You’re most definitely a man,” I tease, poking him in the side. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t need babied a little, and I can’t do that when you won’t let me. It makes me feel like I’m not a part of your whole life. Like there are pieces of you I can’t know. Does that sound dumb?”
“No.” He looks at me, his eyes wide. “I know what you mean. I feel like that with you.”
“But I tell you everything you ask. I let you see all the parts of me. The silly me, the smart me, the sassy me.”
“The sexy you.”
“Whatever,” I say, rolling my eyes. “You’re so great at helping me and talking me through things and doting on me. But you won’t let me take care of you like you do me. That’s not fair to either of us.”
There’s a shake in his next breath that ignites a spark inside him. I can see it cautiously ripple across his face. “I didn’t realize I was doing that, exactly.”
“You are,” I say, touching my lips to his. “Maybe I’m not super supportive of the fighting thing. It’s hard to be when I know things like this wallop of a bruise are going to show up.”
“Do you have something in your life that, when you do it, you could forget about everything else and just kind of zone out in that space?”
Instantly, I think of the designs Sienna has been showing me and the plans for Nate’s bar. I could play with those things for hours on end and never grow tired. I think, too, of certain charities that I love and could spend all day plotting for ways to help them.
“Maybe,” I say.
“That’s what fighting is for me. I go to the gym, pound the bag, concentrate on my footwork. You can’t fight and think about anything else. You have to focus on what you’re doing or you’ll get hurt.”
“I think you need to focus more,” I say, running water down his bruise.
He holds his breath. “Want me to tell you a story?”
“Yes,” I reply immediately. “I do. Bathtime Storytime with Dominic Hughes. Sign me up.”
He shakes his head, but I can see he’s already working on what he’s going to say. “Okay, when I was twelve, I skipped school,” he blows out a breath that has more emotion in the waves than I care to acknowledge. “I had a black eye from an impact with my dad’s right elbow in a futile effort to save my mother from his left fist. I didn’t want to make up a bullshit answer and I was just really fucking mad, to be honest. The other kids didn’t come banged up and I didn’t want to either. It was embarrassing.”