Three some

Gentle hands

He knelt. His hands worked over her thighs, her knees, the raw patches scrubbed gently. He washed her calves, her ankles, the tops of her feet where the carpet had left her skin red. Then he looked up at her, the water streaming over his face, his blue eyes bright through the spray.

He rose. His hand slid between her legs, soap slick, and she leaned into the tile, her breath catching as his fingers parted her. He washed her with the same methodical care — her folds, the sensitive nub of her c**t, the ache of her stretched hole — and her thighs trembled, her hands gripping his shoulders for balance. Not rough. Not teasing. Just thorough, like he was wiping a slate clean.

He rinsed her with his hand, watching the soap disappear, then turned off the water.

The silence rushed in. The drip of the showerhead. Their breathing.

Ryan grabbed a towel from the rack and wrapped it around her, rough terrycloth against her damp skin. He dried her in broad strokes — her arms, her back, her legs — then dropped the towel and stood back.

Zoe stood in the middle of the bathroom, water still clinging to her skin, her hair dark and dripping down her spine. The ropes around her wrists were wet, the fabric darker. Her body gleamed under the bathroom light.

Lucas was still holding the rope. He'd watched the whole thing from the doorway, his gray eyes tracking every movement. Now he stepped forward, the slack in the rope coiling in his fist.

"Good," he said. He reached out and took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her face up. "Now come here."

He led her back into the bedroom with the rope, and she followed on her feet this time, her wet footprints darkening the carpet. Ryan came behind them, still naked, already reaching for something on the nightstand.

Lucas stopped her at the foot of the bed. He didn't tell her to kneel. He just looked at her — wet, naked, marked — and the silence stretched until she understood. She lowered herself to her knees on the carpet, the damp towel under her legs. Her hands rested in her lap, the rope hanging between her thighs.

Lucas crouched in front of her. He took the trailing end of the rope and began to work at the knot at her wrists. His fingers moved with surprising dexterity, loosening the tight weave until the rope fell away. Her wrists were raw, the skin red and angry, dark impressions of the rope's pattern embedded in her flesh. She flexed her fingers, the blood rushing back, the pins and needles sharp.

He took her wrists in his hands and examined the burns. His thumbs pressed into the marks, not gentle, mapping the damage. "These'll bruise," he said. Then he looked up at her. "You want me to wrap them?"