Her Obsession (by Sheridan Hartin) novel Chapter 99

Her Obsession

Pamper Me, Sweetheart.

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Sage

He actually turned, shoulders broad and damp under the steam, and for a moment I just stared at him, at the ridiculousness of it. Conner, the man who’d faced down gunfire without flinching, was standing here waiting for me to scrub his back like some overgrown child. I dipped the cloth in the soap, working it up into a lather, and pressed it against his skin. He shivered at the first touch, and I bit back a smile. “Big bad Conner,” I murmured, dragging the cloth across his shoulders. “Taken down armies, but can’t even reach his own back.”

“Oi,” he shot back, glancing at me over his shoulder with that wicked grin, “I’ve got long arms, sweetheart, just not that long.”

I snorted, scrubbing harder than necessary, earning a grunt out of him. “Serves you right.”

But there was something strangely tender about it, the way the muscles rolled under my hands, the way the lather trailed down his spine with the water. I traced the lines of old scars without thinking, memorising them in the drag of soap and cloth. It was… grounding. Intimate in a way knives and blood never touched.

When I finished, I stepped back, satisfied. “There,” I said, “you’re actually clean for once.”

He smirked, clearly amused at my pride, and I shook my head. “Kneel,” I ordered suddenly.

His brows shot up. “Excuse me?”

“So I can get your hair,” I said, pointing at the top of his head. “I bet you’ve never washed that properly either.”

He laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that bounced off the tile, but then, shockingly, he did it. He actually knelt in front of me, the water cascading over him, turning him from this larger–than–life brute into something almost boyish. I ran my fingers through his hair, working in the soap, the strands slick between my hands. He closed his eyes like a damn cat leaning into it, and I couldn’t help the soft laugh that slipped out of me.

“Well“, I said, quieter now, more to myself than to him. “Looks like someone enjoys a princess treatment.”

His mouth curved, eyes still closed, water dripping down his jaw. “Careful, little ghost,” he rumbled, voice vibrating against my palms. “Keep calling it that and I’ll start expecting tiaras.”

I snorted, working the soap through his hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. “Please. You’d break the crown before it touched your head.”

“Mmh,” he hummed, leaning into my touch like the overgrown brute he was. “Still feels bloody good though. Might have to make this a regular thing.”

“Don’t push your luck,” I muttered, but my lips tugged despite myself. My fingers threaded through his hair, rinsing out the suds, watching the water run clear. It was ridiculous, so ordinary, so domestic that my chest ached. Washing someone’s hair shouldn’t feel like rebellion, but it did.

When the last of the soap was gone, I brushed the dripping strands back from his forehead and tipped his chin up. His eyes opened, sharp blue softened by steam, and for a second, it knocked the air right out of me,

“There,” I said, forcing levity into my tone. “You’re officially pampered.”

He grinned, wide and wolfish, and rose to his full height in front of me again. “Pampered by you, sweetheart? That’s a bloody privilege.”

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12:53 Mon, Oct 20

Pamper Me, Sweetheart.

And damn him, the way he said it, low, sincere, nothing mocking in it, had heat rising in my cheeks hotter than the shower. I shoved at his chest lightly, trying to mask the crack in my armour.

“My turn,” he said, voice low but sure.

I frowned, tugging once, but his grip didn’t budge. “Conner…”

“No arguing, sweetheart,” he cut in, smirk tugging at his mouth. “You washed me. Now I get to return the favour.”

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The words shouldn’t have made my stomach flip, but they did. He plucked the cloth from my hand, worked it into a lather, and then set it gently against my shoulder. The roughness I’d expected wasn’t there; his touch was slow, steady, almost reverent as he drew the cloth down my arm, circling over my wrist before lifting it to rinse.

“You don’t have to…” I started, my voice thinner than I liked.

“I want to,” he interrupted, looking me square in the eye through the steam. “Let me.”

I swallowed hard, forcing myself not to squirm as he dragged the cloth over my collarbone, across the lines of my ribs, careful and deliberate. His thumb brushed just above the scar under my jaw, and for once, he didn’t make a joke, didn’t tease. He just… cleaned me.

The water carried the soap away in rivulets, and I stood still, feeling like every brick wall I’d ever built around myself was being stripped away with it.

He bent slightly, running the cloth over the length of my leg, steadying me with his other hand when I wobbled on the slick tile. “There we go,” he murmured, half to himself. “Perfect.”

It was ridiculous, this small, ordinary act, yet it unravelled me more than bullets ever had. Nobody had ever done this for me. Nobody had ever wanted to.

When he finally straightened, tossing the cloth aside, he cupped my cheek with his damp hand. “Now we’re even,” he said softly.

I wanted to laugh it off, tell him he was making a fool of himself, but the lump in my throat made that impossible. So instead I leaned into his hand, closing my eyes, letting the water and the warmth and him wash over me.

We didn’t move for a long time. The water thundered down around us, hot enough to sting, but I barely felt it. Conner’s hand stayed cupped against my cheek, his forehead dipping now and then until it rested against mine. No words. No smart remarks. Just his breath mingling with mine, the steam wrapping us up in something fragile I didn’t want to shatter. Eventually, the water began to cool, and he gave a soft grunt, reaching past me to shut it off. The sudden quiet rang in my ears, broken only by the drip of water hitting tile.

“Come on, little ghost,” he murmured, brushing his thumb once more across my jaw before reaching for a towel. He wrapped one around my shoulders, tugging it snug as though he could shield me from more than just the cold. Then another went around his own waist, sloppy, careless, the way only he could pull off.

I watched as he grabbed a smaller towel, running it gently through my hair, ruffling it until strands clung wild to my cheeks. I batted at his hand, scowling. “You’ll tangle it.”

He smirked, undeterred, dropping the towel onto my head and scrubbing harder to earn my glare. “Relax. Looks good on you, wild.”

I shoved him back with my palm, but the smile tugging at my lips betrayed me. He caught it, of course, because he always did.

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12:53 Mon, Oct 20

Pamper Me, Sweetheart.

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