I watch, fascinated, as he rubs it over himself, then turns to me and presses it between my legs. I flinch at the contact.
“Too cold? I’m sorry,” he says softly, rubbing the cloth over my sensitive skin. When he’s done he tosses the towel on the counter and pulls me to him for a tender hug, heedless of the fact that we’re still fully exposed. “Tell me what you’re thinking,” he whispers against my hair.
I can tell by his stiffness that he’s worried about me, about whether this was too much too soon, and whether he’s scared me off. It’s sweet, but it makes me feel like I’m breakable, and I don’t like it.
“I’m not freaking out, if that’s what you’re asking,” I say defensively.
He pulls back and cups my face in his hands, studying me. “Of course, that’s what I’m asking. You seemed worried
