Reconciled for Easter (10 page)

Thomas had loosened his hold on the girl by the time Abigail entered. His arm was still around her, but he was reaching over to pick up the book they’d discarded. “It’s my fault we went past nine-thirty,” he said, his voice composed and natural. “I lost track of time. Sorry about that.”

“That’s all right. I’m glad I woke up in time to give my goodnight kiss.” Abigail went over to the bed, and Mia knelt up on the mattress so Abigail wouldn’t have to bend over to kiss her and Baxter.

Abigail wanted to hug the little girl, but she couldn’t without pain.

Thomas kissed Mia too and then turned out the bedside light. He walked out of the room in front of Abigail.

He was a mature, intelligent, competent man. Lean, strong, and solid—with a manner that nearly always claimed authority in a room.

But for some reason Abigail wanted to cradle him tonight.

***

Saturday morning, Abigail was determined to take a shower.

She hadn’t showered all week. Thomas had gotten her some plastic cast covers to waterproof her cast, but between her broken arm and broken ribs she hadn’t been mobile enough to effectively shower on her own. And, despite Thomas’s continued insistence that he’d be happy to assist her, Abigail had kept refusing.

Thomas helped her clean up every evening, but she hadn’t been able to wash her hair in a week since her ribs were too sore to bend over or lean back to wash it in the sink. So by Saturday morning, Abigail’s hair looked as bad as it ever had in her life.

She wanted to make it to Milbourne House for the luncheon today, though, which meant she had to do something about it. It was one thing for Thomas and Mia to see her looking so hideous. The general public was something entirely different.

Her ribs were starting to feel a little better, and she'd cut back on the pain medication that made her so groggy, so Abigail thought she might be able to maneuver in the shower all right. While Mia was eating cereal and watching cartoons, Abigail and Thomas had an extended argument about her getting in the shower by herself.

On this, she wouldn’t back down. And they finally agreed that she’d try it by herself, while Thomas waited outside the bathroom in case she discovered she needed his assistance.

Thomas hadn’t yet showered this morning himself, and he wore a white t-shirt and the trousers he’d had on the previous day. Looking heartily displeased with her, he helped her put on the cast cover—which was basically an enormous condom that slipped over her arm and tightened to keep the water out.

Then he said, “I’ll be right outside. Call when you finally admit you need help.”

She frowned at his use of the word “when” instead of “if,” but she bit back her retort and started to shut the door.

“Leave it partly open,” Thomas said, appearing both grumpy and domestic in his bare feet and slightly wrinkled clothes.

Tired of arguing with him, Abigail left the bathroom door cracked a few inches before slipping off her robe.

The withdrawal she’d felt in him on Tuesday hadn’t lasted. From Wednesday on, he’d acted normal again—at least, the matter-of-fact consideration and dry good-humor that was passing for normal with him lately. It was genuinely an answer to prayer.

Since Abigail was starting to sleep less and was able to function more in her usual role, Mia had settled down into her typical routine as well. Things were going fine for the most part. Except Thomas was living with them. And Abigail hadn’t showered in a week.

But that was going to change this morning.

Abigail’s first challenge was turning on the water in the shower, since that required leaning over. She was already breathless and a little shaky when she carefully stepped over the rim of the tub into the shower. But the first cascade of the warm spray over her head and body felt absolutely wonderful.

She stood still for a long time, just letting the water spill over her and enjoying the feel of it after such a long time.

But when she raised her good arm to run her hand through her hair, she gasped with a jolt of pain. The move stretched her ribs in a way that wasn’t entirely comfortable.

Determined to endure the discomfort, Abigail made sure her hair was fully soaked. Then she winced again as she reached down to pick up her shampoo bottle.

It was then she realized another complication. She had one working arm. So she needed to squirt the shampoo out into the hand of her good arm in order to eventually get it up to her head. But it was mechanically impossible to use the same hand to squirt the shampoo and receive it both.

She stared down at the shampoo bottle for a minute, water streaming down her face.

Very carefully, she tried to hold the bottle between her casted arm and her side, applying pressure to the bottle to dispense the shampoo into her good hand.

It should have been a workable idea.

It didn’t work.

Shampoo did indeed squirt out of the bottle, but she’d pressed it too hard. The shampoo spurted out in a sudden explosion, which she was barely able to catch with her hand. Then the bottle slipped out of its precarious position and fell with a thud to the shower floor.

Abigail bit back a steam of curses, telling herself that she’d done what she needed to do. She'd gotten some shampoo on her hand. There was a thin stream of it running from her palm to her elbow, so she tried to wipe it onto her wet hair. When she’d rubbed it all off, she worked it into her hair with her fingers.

It wasn’t enough. It was hard enough to work up good lather with only one hand, but it was nearly impossible with the amount of shampoo she had at her disposal.

Flushed and flustered, she tried to bend over to pick up the bottle to get some more.

A catch of pain from her ribs made her gasp.

Changing strategies, she tried to use one of her feet to push the bottle slowly up the side of the tub. It slipped, so she tried it again. It slipped once more. The third time she tried the maneuver she almost lost her balance.

Catching herself on the tile wall, Abigail gasped in pain and discouragement. For a moment, she felt trapped and helpless—shaky, incapacitated, naked, and with half a head of pitifully lathered hair.

“Thomas,” she called, hating to admit defeat this way.

He entered the bathroom immediately. He’d obviously just been waiting for the inevitable. In thirty seconds, he was in the shower with her, just as naked as she was.

Abigail tried not to look.

Thomas leaned over to pick up the shampoo bottle. He poured some into his hand and placed the bottle back on the ledge. “You appear to be having quite a time of it.”

When he reached over to massage the shampoo into her hair, Abigail froze. “If you’ll just help me get it in my hand, I’m sure I can—”

“Damn it, Abigail,” he gritted out, working the shampoo with strong fingers. “What’s the problem? I’ve seen you naked before. I’ve seen you naked every evening this week. How is this so much worse?”

The answer should have obvious. In the shower, Thomas was naked too.

She released a shuddering sound and tried to make herself relax, knowing it was foolish pride that was making her feel this way and not anything of value. “I’m sorry. Thank you for helping. It’s hard for me to feel so helpless, but I really do appreciate it.”

At her words, Thomas seemed to relax as well. His fingers weren’t soft or gentle, but they felt delicious against her scalp. And it would be so nice to feel clean again.

After a minute, Thomas rinsed off his hands and murmured, “Step back so we can rinse it out.”

She stepped back under the spray and let Thomas rinse the soap out of her hair. Wiping her eyes free of water, she looked over at Thomas. Instinctively, her eyes ran over his toned chest and well-defined abs. And then, moved by an irresistible compulsion, her eyes lowered to his groin. She swallowed hard when she saw he was partly erect and forced her eyes back up to his hands.

“I need conditioner,” she said in confusion, as she registered he’d poured out more shampoo.

His mouth quirked up, and he didn’t seem remotely self-conscious about his nakedness or his partial erection. “I think you need more shampoo first. Your hair was in pretty bad shape.”

“You don’t have to be snotty. It’s not my fault I’m incapacitated.”

Arching his eyebrows, he said coolly, beginning to run the shampoo into her hair, “It is your fault you were so stubborn about getting in the shower with me all week.”

Sadly, this was the truth. So she had no way to put up a reasonable defense. And now that she was doing it, the whole thing didn’t seem quite so bad.

Certainly, it was a little embarrassing. And, yes, it made her feel silly and helpless. And, of course, she was self-conscious about the fact that Thomas’s penis had started to harden.

But he hadn’t even seemed to notice, and his hands in her hair felt incredibly good. He massaged her scalp as he lathered her up, and the sensation both stimulated and relaxed her.

She breathed deeply, closing her eyes and letting herself enjoy the incongruous indulgence. After they’d rinsed out the second round of shampoo, he reached for the conditioner and gave her the same treatment with it.

The conditioner was supposed to set in her hair for five minutes, although Abigail hadn’t intended to wait that long. But Thomas kept up the massage, rubbing his fingertips against her scalp in firm, rhythmic strokes, for what must have been the requisite five minutes.

Abigail couldn’t bring herself to make him hurry up. It just felt too good. She breathed in and out with deep, hoarse sighs, barely able to restrain herself from moaning. Tingles of pleasure ran down from her nerve endings and seemed to pulse through the rest of her body.

When Thomas finally said, in a thick mutter, that she could rinse off, Abigail was afraid she’d enjoyed it too much. As she stepped under the spray, she was painfully conscious that her nipples had tightened and a restless pressure had developed between her legs.

It hadn’t even been erotic. His touch and words hadn’t been sexual at all. What the hell was wrong with her?

To keep her responses from escalating, she asked if he’d pour some of the body wash out in her good hand so she could clean the rest of herself up. She turned away from Thomas as she quickly ran the soap over her shoulders, chest, belly and thighs.

She gasped sharply when she felt Thomas’s warm palm on her wet back. And she arched slightly into the stroke of his hand as he soaped up the skin down her spine and along her shoulder blades.

“Thomas!” she gasped, when she felt his hand move lower, down to rub her butt and the back of her thighs. Her body responded to the very intimate touch with an ache of arousal she couldn’t seem to talk herself out of.

“Since I imagine you won’t want to submit to this again any time soon,” Thomas said dryly, with only a hint of gravel in his voice, “I figured we better clean you all the way.”

On one level, his words made sense. After the way she was feeling at the moment, there was no way she’d be comfortable getting into a shower with him again. But when he pulled her back under the spray to rinse off the soap, his hands on her wet skin made her want to melt.

She kept her eyes closed as she used her good hand to rinse off her front while he took care of the back. She was afraid to look at him, afraid to see his naked body.

But she knew his appearance by heart. Knew every inch of his body. He wasn’t built like a body-builder. The lines of his form and his muscle development were clean and efficient, filled out from his skinniness as a boy but still lean. And she’d always loved the gentle rippling of his arms and shoulders, the firm flatness of his belly, the tight curve of his ass.

“Did you want to shave?”

Thomas’s voice broke through her shaky reverie. Her eyes flew open and focused on his face. There was too much water in her eyes and his to really read his expression. “No.” There was no way she was going to let him shave her legs in her condition. “Not my legs. But...”

Thomas’s eyes strayed down to her groin.

“No!” she choked, instinctively trying to cover the feature in question with her one good arm. “I was just thinking...my underarms...it’s getting kind of yuck.”

His mouth turned up in a half-smile. “Ah. My mistake.”

His voice was teasing, and for some reason that seemed to ease a lot of the tension Abigail had been experiencing. She gave a huff of amusement and held out her palm to him. “Soap, please.”

She lathered up the underarm of her right side and, when Thomas handed her the razor, she was able to shave the area without any problem. But then she lifted her left arm—her good arm—and realized her problem.

She was absolutely incapable of shaving under her left arm.

Thomas just stood there and cocked an obnoxious eyebrow at her.

“Vindictive bastard,” Abigail said without any heat. She could still feel an arousal pulsing between her thighs but the distractions had helped push it into the back of her consciousness.

“Did you need something?”

“Will you please help me?” she gritted out.

“Of course. Why didn’t you ask me before?”

He quickly and carefully shaved her underarm, and Abigail let out a sigh of relief when it was over. “You could at least pretend not to enjoy my humiliation,” she muttered, half in jest.