“Let’s clean you up.”
He helps me sit up, and I lean into his touch, though it's fleeting and cold.
Then he tugs me into him, walking me to the shower. I sag against the wall as he turns on the water and tests it.
How can this man even care about me after everything I’ve done?
He hands me a toothbrush, and I weakly scrub at my teeth before swallowing the paste, not even bothering to spit it out.
He watches me and then steps toward me, helping me undress, first my shirt, then my pants. When I’m completely nude, I’m shaking so badly that my teeth clatter noisily in the quiet room.
“Whit,” he says gently, his hands clutching my arms. “You’ve lost weight. Are you eating?”
I lick at my lips, and fresh tears leak from my eyes.
His face crumples, and his nostrils flare, those fingers digging into my skin.
“You need to shower. You’ll feel better. You always felt better after.”
I shake my head once and lean into him. His hands tense against me, and then he’s pulling me into him, cradling me to his muscular chest, and I clutch onto him, ugly, wretched sobs escaping my trembling lips.
“Whit,” he whispers, running his hands through my dirty hair, but he doesn’t care. My mess never bothered him.
And I let him hold me, soaking his shirt with my tears.
I miss him.
When my sobs turn to hiccups, he cradles my face in his hands and moves away from me. But I lean toward him, needing him to hold me. Just for a minute longer. A second. I’ll take whatever he’ll give me.
Then he’s undressing, pulling his clothes off, and I can’t tear my eyes away. He’s more beautiful than I remember.
“Let’s wash you,” he says softly and leads me into the shower. Warm water soaks my skin, but all I can feel is the way he washes me reverently. Like he still wants me. Like he misses me too. I turn my face into his chest and let my lips slip across his collarbone.
He exhales shakily, his cock hardening between us. For the first time this week, I feel alive.
I push into it, but he pulls his hips back. “Don’t,” he says, and I feel ashamed.
He’s right. What am I doing?
“Rinse,” he says, tilting my head back, and I do as he asks, those thick, strong fingers stroking through my hair.
And when he’s done, my body finally clean, he looks at me and wets his lips.
“God, Whit,” he mutters, and I blink up at him, clutching him.
I can’t let go just yet. I need more time.
“Please,” I say. My first word in days, and I’m begging.
But I don’t care. I’ll grovel if it means I can keep him.
“Baby,” he murmurs, and then his thumb is smoothing across my bottom lip, and I tremble against him.
“I miss you,” he says, and I close my eyes, my tears mixing with the water cascading down me.
When I don’t respond, Caleb starts to move away from me, and I grab onto him, finding my strength after days of doing nothing.
“Come home,” I say, clutching onto him, pressing myself into him.