Free Sweet Victory: A Novella (His Wicked Games #2.5) by Ember Casey

every line of my face before I disappear.
    I obey him. As much as I chafe at losing, I really don’t mind this. There’s something very intimate, very sensual about helping him wash. I could spend hours slipping my hands through his hair, hours toying with and twisting the strands, just reveling in how silky they feel between my fingers. His scalp is warm beneath the water, but it’s nothing to the warmth burning my cheeks.
    And I never look away from his gaze. His eyes are dark, half closed, but there’s a brightness that warms me from the inside out.
    I keep expecting him to try something naughty—to tease my nipples, or to slide a hand between my legs—but he doesn’t take advantage of the fact that I can’t return his touch. Instead, his hands linger on my waist, warm and solid and steady.
    This isn’t about sex. Not this time.
    Neither of us speaks. I finish washing his hair, and then he picks up the shampoo and squeezes some into his own hand. I close my eyes as his hands weave through my wet hair. His fingers move in slow circles, round and round like the best kind of massage. Between his gentle touch and the warm lick of the water, I could fall asleep right here.
    “Look at me,” he says softly.
    It’s not an order, but an entreaty. I open my eyes and hold his gaze as he washes my hair. This is nothing like our earlier staring match. I don’t find myself fighting the urge to laugh or blink or look away. I want to lose myself in those dark eyes of his, drown in his soul. I can’t imagine my life without Calder. Once, I thought my time with him was like a dream—a wild, passionate fantasy from which I’d eventually wake up. Now, the opposite feels true: everything I knew before Calder feels like a dream, and this, only this, is authentic and real. I swear, sometimes I believe that all of my senses have been heightened—all of my emotions magnified—since I met him. It’s silly, and it’s irrational, but no reality I’ve ever known can match the intensity of the one I experience when Calder is by my side.
    And if I ever dream again, I know it could never live up to this.

CHAPTER SIX
     
     
    We never finish our game. After our shower, we tumble right back into the bedroom, and though Calder seems eager for the next challenge, I don’t miss the fatigue in his eyes. We spent the whole day hauling our things up three flights of stairs and the better part of the night hungrily devouring each other. Any normal person would have collapsed long ago. And that’s not even considering the emotional strain of the day.
    I suggest we take a break and lie down for a little while. Calder seems reluctant at first, but as soon as the protest leaves his lips, his mouth widens in a yawn.
    “You know,” I say, “if you’re tired, we can end the game and you can just give me the present.”
    His lips curl into a secretive smile. “It’s too important for that. But you’re right. We should rest for a while.”
    “Just a little while,” I say.
    “Just a little while,” he agrees.
    We throw some sheets down on the mattress and curl up next to each other. We d on’t speak. It’s enough to lie here in each other’s arms, to entangle ourselves and let our heartbeats slowly fall into time.
    “This is perfect,” he whispers, so quietly that I think I’ve imagined it. When I tilt my face toward his, he’s already asleep.
    I shift slightly so that I can look at him in the dark. He’s slumbering soundly, his chest rising and falling with the slow, steady rhythm of deep sleep. I’m exhausted too, but in spite of my body’s complaints, I can’t seem to drift off. In fact, the longer I lie here, the more awake I feel. My thoughts keep drifting back to Lou and what I heard through the door.
    I know I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. It’s long been a fault of mine—making assumptions and acting on them before taking the time to investigate or at least consider all options. It was this very recklessness that