Chapter 89 Bath
By the second week at the penthouse, Tristan was improving. He was walking more steadily, and he had even managed to conduct a brief, highly supervised conference call with Vane regarding the legal cleanup of the Opera House incident.
But he was still heavily restricted. And he still hated it.
"I smell like a hospital," he announced on a rainy Tuesday afternoon.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing only his sweatpants, glaring at his immobilized right arm.
"You don't smell like a hospital," I said, looking up from my laptop where I was reviewing emails from the site foreman. "You smell like Marco’s expensive soap."
"I haven't had a proper shower in two weeks," he grumbled. "Sponge baths are for the elderly."
"Sponge baths are for people who can't get their surgical incisions wet," I corrected, closing my laptop. "And Dr. Aris said no running water over the shoulder until the stitches are out."
"Then I want a bath."
"You can't get in and out of the tub safely with one arm."
Tristan sighed, a deep, rumbling sound of frustration. He ran his good hand through his hair, which was getting a little too long, curling slightly at the nape of his neck.
"Please, Mina," he said, looking at me. "I feel disgusting. I just need... I need to feel clean."
I looked at him.
"Okay," I said, standing up. "I'll run a shallow bath. But you're not getting in. You're going to sit on the edge, and I'll wash you."
He offered a small, crooked smile. "I can live with that."
I went into the master bathroom.
I turned on the tap, letting the hot water fill the bottom quarter of the tub. I added a few drops of a cedar and sandalwood body wash letting the steam carry the rich, woodsy scent into the air.
"Alright, come in," I called out.
Tristan walked into the bathroom. He looked tired from the short walk, the exertion still taking a toll.
"Sit here," I said, pointing to the wide, flat edge of the tub.
He sat down carefully, his legs resting inside the empty half of the massive tub, his back facing the water. I unfastened the heavy sling, gently lowering his right arm to rest on his lap. He winced, a sharp intake of breath hissed through his teeth.
"Sorry," I murmured.
"It's fine. Just stiff."
I grabbed a soft sea sponge from the vanity and dipped it into the warm, soapy water.
I started with his back.
I knelt beside the tub, squeezing the excess water from the sponge before pressing it against his skin.
The bathroom was quiet, save for the sound of the rain against the frosted glass window and the soft splash of the water.
The muscles in his back were tense at first, instinctively bracing against the pain in his shoulder. But as I continued the slow, rhythmic motion, the tension began to melt away. His head dropped forward, his chin resting near his chest, a long sigh escaping his lips.
"That feels good," he murmured, his voice thick and sleepy.
"You hold too much tension in your shoulders," I noted, my hand following the sponge, my fingertips mapping the hard planes of his back.
I moved the sponge to his left arm, washing down to his wrist, carefully navigating around the small, fading bruises from the IV lines.
I rinsed the sponge and moved around to face him.
His eyes were closed, his face relaxed in the steam.
I gently washed his chest, moving very carefully around the thick white bandages that covered his right shoulder. My finger brushed his.
His breathing changed.
He opened his eyes.
They were fixed directly on my face.
The air in the bathroom suddenly felt too hot.
I continued to wash his stomach, the sponge tracing the tight ridges of his abdomen.
He reached out with his left hand. He didn't grab my wrist to stop me. He gently caught a stray lock of my hair that had escaped my messy bun, tucking it behind my ear.
His fingertips lingered against my jawline.
"You're very quiet," he said softly.
"I'm concentrating," I replied, my voice sounding slightly breathless to my own ears. I rinsed the sponge in the water, avoiding his gaze.
"On what?"
"On not getting your stitches wet."
He let out a low chuckle, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin just below my ear.
"Look at me, Mina."
I stopped the movement of the sponge. I slowly lifted my eyes to meet his.
"Thank you," he said.
"For the bath?"
"For staying," he corrected. "For taking care of me. For putting up with my terrible moods."
"You're not that terrible," I smiled weakly. "I've had clients who were worse."
"I'm serious," he said, his hand sliding to cup the back of my neck, pulling me slightly closer. "I know I'm not easy to love. I know I broke things that took years to rebuild. But having you here... letting me heal in your space..."
He stopped, swallowing hard.
"It means everything," he finished.
I leaned forward, resting my hands on his uninjured thigh.
"We're both healing," I whispered.
He leaned down.
His lips met mine. It was a slow, tentative kiss, mindful of his physical limitations.
I kissed him back, my hands moving from his thigh to rest lightly against his waist. He tasted like the steam and the cedar soap.
He deepened the kiss, his tongue tracing my bottom lip before pressing inside. A soft groan vibrated in his chest.
I pulled back slightly, breaking the kiss, my chest rising and falling quickly.
"Tristan," I warned softly, my eyes dropping to the thick white bandages on his shoulder. "You're injured. You can't."
He let out a frustrated breath, resting his forehead against mine.
"I know," he rasped, his voice strained with desire. "But you're kneeling in front of me, and you're touching me, and it is taking every ounce of self-control I possess not to pull you into this tub."
A small, wicked thrill shot through me.
I looked down at his lap.
I looked back up at his face.
"You can't move," I stated softly, stating a medical fact as a rule of engagement.
His amber eyes darkened. He understood exactly what I was offering.
"I can't move," he agreed, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper.
"Then you'll just have to let me do the work," I said.
I dropped the sponge into the water.
I didn't stand up. I stayed kneeling in front of him.
"Don't move," I commanded softly.
"I won't," he promised, his jaw clenching tight.
I leaned forward. I bypassed his mouth, trailing my lips down the strong column of his neck, pressing a soft kiss to his collarbone, safely away from the bandages.
He let out a sharp, ragged exhale, his head falling back, exposing his throat.
His left hand remained tangled in my hair, not pushing or pulling, just holding on as if I were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
"Mina," he groaned as my lips moved lower.
"Shh," I whispered against his skin. "Just feel."