If he wants? How could he not want? For a moment, he wants so much that he doesn't actually take the soap from her; instead, his hands run slowly up her back until he can take her face between them, and tilt it back toward him. He still doesn't kiss her, not after he told her he would only touch her the way she wants him to, and she's only given him this much so far. But his eyes drift shut again for a moment or two, as the water and her scent dissolve more of him away.

Then he reaches out without opening his eyes and curls the soap out of her hand.

He rolls the bar between his palms, and then begins to run them very slowly over her body. He keeps the soap in one hand and rubs it over her back in small circles, almost a massage; spread fingers and a flat palm stroke the suds across her collarbone and down her arms. Every caress is reverent, and he takes great care not to touch her in a way that might suggest more, but he keeps his head tilted down toward hers, enveloped in their own little world.