11. A Nice, Warm Bath

There's enough peroxide left, after George liberally pours it over my arm, for me to try to get the worst bloodstains out of what's been one of my favorite tee shirts. He thinks I'm loco, again, for wasting time and effort on it, but I stand swaying over the sink, rinsing the poly-cotton knit repeatedly with fizzing liquid. "Of course, it'll work, I do it all the time," I mumble.

"I thought you said this was the first time you were shot?" he says, looking puzzled. Sometimes, men are just clueless. I stare at him until the light dawns, and am pleased to see his color heighten. I may be shot, but I've puked on an asshole and made a veteran gunfighter blush - not bad before eight in the morning.

While I'm examining the sleeve in question to see if it looks any better, he runs hot water into the tub. "Come on," he coaxes me. "You're so tired, you look like you're going to fall over any minute now."

A glance in the mirror shows he's right. I'm jet-lagged, my arm is throbbing continuously - that OTC shit isn't touching the pain-I've got dark circles under my eyes and I think I'm getting a cold sore. I hang the soggy shirt on the back of the door and peel off the rest of my clothes. He's standing there watching me; at the moment, that's the least of my concerns. Stepping into the tub, I sink down into the warmth of the water. Bliss. I may fall asleep in here...

George has found a clean washrag and begins to soap my back with a gentle, circular motion. My eyelids droop closed as he begins to half-talk, half-sing. In Spanish, so in my condition, I'm not getting much of it. It's a song, or maybe it's poetry and it's just the way he says it. Something about war, angels and heaven...his voice is a low rumble...the parts of me that don't hurt are deliciously relaxed. His fingers have found a knot at the back of my neck, and they're rubbing in little circles, easing the tension. My shoulders get the same treatment; he's careful not to bear down on the right one, but he's kneading it carefully.

Somewhere along the line, he's taken off his shirt - probably doesn't want to get it wet - and when I make the effort to half-open my eyes to smile appreciation for his singing, I get to admire him. He's lean, fit and a dusting of dark hair extends from his throat, down his muscled abdomen, disappearing into the waistband of his pants. I count bullet holes. He's tied with Sands, and that's from the front, with his pants still on. I giggle.

"What, surely my singing isn't that bad?" he protests.

"I am not a nice girl," I confide, thinking wicked thoughts, and he gives me a quizzical look.

"Maybe you should wash the rest," he suggests, trying to hand me the washcloth.

"Do I have to...?" I bat my lashes at him.

His eyes widen. He tsk-tsks. "You are not -"

"Yeah, yeah, we both agree on that one, George...please?" I lean back in the tub, letting the girls bob up, pert and sassy, and wait.

For a minute, I think he's going to bail - he's staring at me like he's never seen a naked woman before - but he comes around, and in a moment, the soft, slubbed cotton is making a foray down around my collarbones. He's taking his time...at this rate, by the time he's done, the only dirt left is gonna be what's between my ears. My nipples are tight little peaks, and he's proving to my intense satisfaction that he does know his way around a naked woman, shocked looks aside. He's using both hands on the washcloth, which isn't strictly necessary, but it's certainly enjoyable.

Working his way down my belly, he scrubs his way down my right leg, then up my left. The way his hair hangs obscures his eyes, but there's a hint of a smile on his lips. His touch is firm enough not to tickle my feet. His hands sweep slowly up the contours of my shin, and somewhere around my knees, the washrag sinks to the bottom of the tub. The sensation of his calloused fingertips against my inner thighs makes me squirm. The curve of his lips grows more pronounced. When his practiced hands reach the pink cleft of my desire, I yield completely to stars and fireworks.

"Catherine..." His voice caresses the syllables, practically purring. "Cath-ar-reen. Come on, you can't sleep in the bathtub."

Sleeping? I'm not sleeping. I'm...wow. I let him help me up and guide me to the bed, wondering how much luckier I'm going to get. When is the last time I got it on with a guy who wasn't business one way or another? Not a nice girl...

Once he's tucked me in, George returns to the bathroom, and I hear the shower running...that was amazing. I'm hazy, coming closer and closer to the abyss of slumber. When he comes back out and climbs back into bed, I summon the energy to snuggle up against him and shiver. He's taken a cold shower.

"Sleep," he whispers, drawing me closer.

And I do.

Amethyst: Thanks for your input. Sands is tricky; he has charm, but he can be an obnoxious bastard on occasion. "Vicious" wasn't what I was aiming for, but he does have a certain callousness toward the suffering of others. Personally, I'm rather fond of him, but Kate is another story. There is further charecter development in the works - it's time to rein in the pace, hopefully without losing too much momentum.

Kerttu: Sorry about your coffee, sweetie. Biscotti?

Dawnie-7, mssparrington: Yeah, guacamole. Green and nasty. Just thinking about it at 8 in the morning makes me uneasy, and I'm not riddled with bullets. Yeech!

Mojave Dragonfly: Romance? Who? What? Where grin> And yes, explanations will be forthcoming. That's a drawback to starting with a bang and throwing a lot of action at the players.