Three some

Cleaned and claimed

Ryan stepped into the bathroom, the tile cool under his bare feet. He came up behind her, his body heat radiating against her back, and reached past her to turn on the tap. The water ran, splashing against the basin. He cupped his hands under the stream, let them fill, then brought them to her face.

Cold water hit her cheeks. She flinched, her eyes squeezing shut, but Ryan's hands stayed, his thumbs dragging across her cheekbones to wipe the c*m from her skin. He rinsed and repeated. The second time, he rubbed harder, getting the corners, her jaw, the smear under her nose. Water ran down her chin, dripped onto her collarbone, onto her breasts.

"Open," he said.

She opened her eyes. Her reflection was clearer now — clean cheeked, wet, her skin raw where he'd scrubbed. Her brown eyes looked darker against the paleness of her face.

Ryan tilted his head, studying her. "Better."

Lucas's hand released her throat. He stepped back, the rope still held in one fist, and the slack let her shoulders drop, her head lower. He gestured with his chin toward the shower. "Rinse her off. All of it. I want her fresh."

Ryan grabbed her under the arm and hauled her upright. Her legs wobbled, the knees raw, and she leaned into him without meaning to. He didn't push her away. He steered her into the shower stall, a glass box still wet from earlier, and reached past her to turn the water on.

Cold hit first. She gasped — silent, her back arching — and Ryan adjusted the handle until steam began rising. Warm water sluiced over her shoulders, down her back, soaking her hair. He didn't step out. He stood under the spray with her, the water plastering his dirty blond hair to his forehead, running through his stubble.

His hands found her shoulders. He turned her, pressing her back against the tile, the cold shock of it against her warm skin. The water ran between them, and he watched it bead on her breasts, her stomach, the curve of her hip.

"You're quiet," he said. Not accusing. Just noticing.

Zoe's hand came up. She touched his chest, just below his collarbone, and traced a line through the water beading on his skin. A line. A circle. Then she pressed her palm flat over his heart, her fingers spread. Her brown eyes met his. Held.

Ryan caught her wrist, his calloused thumb pressing into the rope burn. Not hard. Just there, his grip firm. "That's not an answer."

Her mouth curved — the barest shift, not quite a smile. She pulled her hand free and tapped two fingers against her own lips, then against his chest again. A language he didn't speak but understood the shape of.

He laughed, low. "Fair enough."

The water ran pink at the drain — diluted c*m, blood from her scraped knees. Ryan reached for the soap, a cheap hotel bar that smelled of lemon and something chemical, and lathered his hands. He started at her shoulders, working the soap into her skin with slow, circular pressure. Her neck. Her collarbone. The space between her breasts. His hands moved lower, over her stomach, the jut of her hipbones, and she let him, her body swaying under his touch.