“Shh,” I murmur as I unclasp her bra and let it fall to the ground. “This is about you.”

I rub the muscles of her neck, then move farther down as I knead down her back.

“Step out of your pants for me.”

She does as she’s told, like a woman who’s so exhausted that she can’t fight me. There’s a part of me that expected to be turned on by this, the undressing her, the having her at my mercy, and while of course, the sight of her naked would turn any man on, I feel something more.

Like I want to protect her.

Take care of her.

Let her know how appreciated she is.

And I don’t know how I feel about that as I turn the water on and wait for it to heat up. It’s like my head and heart are in a constant battle of opening up and shutting down. Of letting her in and then guarding it back up.

Yet time and again, I let her in when I’ve never let anyone other than the guys in. That says something, doesn’t it?

She blinks up at me, a little dazed, as I help her into the bathtub. She moans softly as she settles.

I go in search for a cup to help wash her hair and at first when I return, I think she’s fallen asleep. But I don’t stare at her like I want to, I don’t take advantage of the trust she’s given me either.

She sighs when I pour the warm water over her scalp. She tilts her head back as I work the shampoo into a lather and begin massaging it into her scalp in painfully detailed circles. I rub my fingers into her temples and then to the back of her neck.

This is such a new experience for me, taking care of someone.

Then again, is it? The thought startles me. I took care of my mom for a long time, and maybe I subconsciously stopped wanting to take care of anyone because of that.

Until now.

Until Hendrix.

What does that mean?

“The other day, the day of the gala,” she says quietly, her eyes still closed.

“What about it?”

“You were at the homeless shelter. I saw a picture on a gossip site. You were in the food line helping out.”

I digest her words as slowly as I respond. “And?”

“Why didn’t you tell me that’s where you went? Is that where whatever happened, happened?”

I exhale, running my fingers through her wet strands. “I don’t tell anyone when I go.” It’s not a lie, it’s just not the full truth. “It’s my way of giving back and it’s not for public fodder or good press. I never want it to be.”