Chenghai stood between my knees and wet the corner of a clean towel. He started with my face, wiping mud from my cheek and jaw before moving down my neck.
His touch was slow, but there was nothing delicate about the way he held me. One hand stayed firm around the back of my thigh while the other cleaned every place the mud had reached.
The towel passed over my shoulder, then beneath the strap of my tank top.
Chenghai's eyes followed it.
My skin warmed despite the cold water around my feet.
He cleaned the other shoulder, then moved lower along my arm. When he reached my hands, he washed each finger separately, rubbing away the dirt trapped around my nails.
It should have felt practical.
It didn't.
His hands were too warm, his body was too close, and the mud had stopped being a problem several minutes ago.
I placed my palm against his chest.
Chenghai's fingers paused around my wrist.
