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“Don’t ever change your hair. It’s perfect.”
His praise is abrupt, but his words are sincere—so sincere that I don’t even have the courage to thank him. It feels like too much.
Allowing him to finish what I started, Jett rinses and conditions my hair before grabbing a washcloth and lathering it with the hotel’s floral-scented soap.
Without question, Jett moves from my hair to my neck. Our unspoken language bypasses any consent that would normally be necessary for a moment this intimate.
At my shoulder, the suds trickle down the front of my body, providing some coverage for my exposed breasts.
“Your arms are so strong. Don’t ever change them.”
What is he doing?
My breath sharpens, and I can’t peel my stare away from him, but he’s not looking at me. He’s looking at all the parts of me he’s praising.
The parts I’ve been severely neglecting.
The heart I’ve been severely neglecting.
By my breasts, he cleans them, then lowers himself to lightly kiss both. It’s soft and so heartfelt, I wouldn’t dare ruin the moment by stopping him.
“These are so perfect. Don’t ever change them.”
One knee at a time, Jett lowers himself onto the tile, holding my body lightly to steady himself, while also keeping me from falling over.
“That’s going to hurt your knees,” I object as he settles onto the hard floor.
“I’m fine,” he whispers.
The washcloth rests on his shoulder, his hands curving around my waist in circles. Soft, adoring circles.
“Fuck, Sofia baby, this right here…” Jett moves his hands to my most insecure area, gripping the sides of my waist while his thumbs rub circles near my bellybutton.
“This is the sexiest thing in the world. Don’t ever change this.”
“Jett, why are you doing this?” I ask breathily, my chest tightening at his admiration.
“Because you deserve to hear how perfect you are.”
He takes his time exploring my body, stopping at every part to tell me how much he adores it, and how much I don’t need to change.
They’re words I need desperately, words I’ve tried to remind myself of, but somehow, everyone else’s are always much louder than my own.
When he finishes washing my body, he removes the showerhead and flicks the dial to a different setting, making sure the soap is all gone.
Throughout his admissions, I’ve acquired a strength that can only be from one thing.
Buzzing as the water flows down my limbs, the tickle deep in my stomach stays persistent while fireworks shoot from inside every time the water inches closer to my center.
“Jett,” I whimper, feeling the energy shift.
My body is free of soap, but he won’t stop rinsing, won’t stop watching.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, still trailing his eyes over my wet body.
“Better, much better,” I pant.
“Should we go eat?” His voice is strained like he doesn’t want to leave, and I feel the charge more than ever before.
