He grumbles something low under his breath, but I ignore his irritation.
I detach the showerhead and change the water flow until it’s more like a soft spray than the near violent one it was set to previously.
“Lean your head back, close your eyes. Crap,” I hiss when he sways on the chair. “Hold on to me.”
“Cara, I—”
“Right here,” I say, lifting one arm and placing it on my side.
His fingers curl immediately as he lifts his other hand to the opposite side. His head leans forward, eyes blinking up at me, and for a long second, I’m lost in his gaze. I can picture his handsome face, void of all the cuts and bruising it has now, but I’d be a liar if I said he still isn’t just as handsome as he was before. He fought a battle and won, and that’s a damn sexy look on him.
I clear my throat. “Okay, let’s try again.”
His eyes close, head slowly moving back, and his grip tightens on my sides. I move through the routine of wetting, soaping, and lathering his hair, my body trembling when he groans as my fingernails scrape over his scalp.
“Do you have injuries up here, too?” I ask. “I can’t determine the cause of that sound.”
“It just feels really good.”
I smile as I start to rinse even though he can’t see it, but it falls away when he flexes his arms, the movement drawing me closer. The insides of his thighs brush the outside of my legs, and I look down at the contact.
Big mistake.
I know what he did in here earlier. The sound was unmistakable, but he either didn’t finish or he has an amazing recovery time. The hand towel on his lap doesn’t do much to conceal the erection he’s sporting.
“Ignore it,” he says, and my eyes snap back down to his.
“Oh, shit. Sorry.”
I pull the showerhead away because I was distracted and didn’t notice him lifting his head. Water was pouring down his face.
“It’s fine.” He licks away some of the water, and my body stands up and takes notice.
I blame the heat of the humidity swarming around us for the flush on my skin.
“Y-you said the backs of your arms and lower legs?” I ask, my voice a few octaves higher than normal. “What about your back?”
“Couldn’t reach it,” he says, his hands dropping from my waist when I take a step back.
“I’ll get it.”
He watches me, his eyes like lasers on my skin as I lather up the sponge. The backs of his arms are no chore but squatting to reach his lower legs brings me right at crotch level, and I have to swallow and look away quickly.
“Now your back,” I say as I stand, only assessing the situation makes me frown.
The way the shower chair is tucked into the corner, there’s really no way to clean him fully without leaning over him. If he wasn’t so adamant that not washing the areas he couldn’t reach were fine, I’d think this was a setup.
Stepping in closer, I reach behind him. Javier doesn’t hesitate to lift his hands back to my hips, only this time he takes it a step further, leaning closer and resting his head against my stomach.
This is nothing like the millions of work showers I’ve given. At work, the chairs the residents sit on have bars around three sides to prevent them from toppling over. The one Javier is in is nothing more than a stool.
I should be embarrassed for the length of time I spend washing his back. In my head, I blame the slow circles and attention to detail on the mottled skin and my reluctance to cause him any more pain.
I step back once again before grabbing the sprayer to rinse him off completely. He doesn’t say a word when I turn the water off and grab towels.
The process is slow and gentle and not filled with an ounce of ulterior motives. I have to pat dry each cut, making sure not to apply too much pressure. I dry his hair, arms, back, and chest, before getting most of his legs, and he holds the towel to his pelvic area as I help him stand.
We’re chest to chest as he dries those intimate areas, and I do my best not to groan with need when the back of his hand brushes against my body. He’s able to manage getting the towel around his waist and knotting it at the front, but the movement destabilizes him. I grab for him, but don’t manage in time before his back presses to the shower wall.
“Shit. Are you okay?”
When he doesn’t answer, I look up at him, insanely aware that my body is flush against his.
“Never been better,” he whispers, one hand on my waist, the other inching up to cup my jaw.