Timothy York looked up at her.
Summer Thorne held up both her hands.
Her right wrist was sprained, her left hand was scraped, and neither arm could get wet.
Timothy York met her gaze for a moment, then reached out and closed the bathroom door.
The sound of running water trickled out.
Steam gradually filled the bathroom.
Timothy York reached out and slowly, piece by piece, unfastened Summer Thorne's hospital gown.
From start to finish, he was calm and unhurried.
It was as if she were just an ordinary object before him, and he was simply following a procedure, meticulously and earnestly washing her clean.
His fingers traced every part of her body, coolly, without a trace of desire.
Like an old monk in deep meditation, he was composed, serene, and completely self-possessed.
The moment he turned off the water, Summer Thorne, ignoring that she was soaking wet, threw herself into his arms.
