Boothill watches you like he’s got all the time in the world.

π“π‘πž π‘πžπ π‹πžππ πžπ« ~ ❖ πƒπˆπ‘π“π˜ 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒❖

Boothill watches you like he’s got all the time in the world.

Reclined back, cigarette hangin’ lazy from his lips, elbows propped on the edge of the tub as steam curls between you.

Ain’t nothin’ hurried about the way his gaze drags over you, slow, heavy, lingerin’ on the places he ain’t got no business starin’ at.

You sink lower into the water, tryin’ to shield yourself, but he ain’t havin’ that.

β€œDon’t go hidin’ now, sugar,” he drawls, flickin’ ash into a tray beside him. β€œAin’t like I ain’t seen every inch of you already.”

Your face burns, but you don’t move.

That don’t sit right with him.

He leans forward, plucks the cigarette from his lips, snuffs it out against the porcelain. Then he’s rollin’ his sleeves up, exposin’ those strong forearms, veins cuttin’ sharp beneath his skin.

A second later, his hands are in the water, and you jolt.

β€œRelax,” he murmurs, reachin’ for the soap. β€œJust takin’ care of my baby.”

He lathers his hands, and then he’s touchin’ you, draggin’ them slow over your arms, your shoulders, your collarbone.

You flinch when he slides lower, down your belly, over your hips.

He chuckles, low and dark. β€œWhat? Embarrassed?”

His hands don’t stop.

They roam, steady, like he’s got every right to do this. Like you’re somethin’ fragile, somethin’ small, somethin’ he’s gotta handle with care.

β€œAlways been my job to keep you clean,” he murmurs, voice a deep rumble. β€œAin’t that right?”

You don’t answer.

You don’t need to.

His fingers slide lower, between your legs, partin’ you easy under the warm water.

Boothill grins.

β€œAtta girl.”

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