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It’s supposed to be fake, even if this crackling tension doesn’t feel like an act at all.
“I’ll stay,” I whisper.
I want him to tell me he’ll stay, too, and we can finally give in to whatever the hell this is, but with a tight-lipped glance at the fluffy towel and robe on the rack, he steps back.
“You should have everything you need,” he says. “Let me know if there’s anything missing.”
You.
But before I have time to say another awkward word, he’s gone, disappearing down the huge hall with its arches.
Now it’s just me, alone in a palatial bathroom with a head full of lewd thoughts and nerves that are way too keyed up.
Prick.
It’s for the best, I tell myself as I switch on the shower.
It’s been hard enough keeping this unprofessional arrangement respectable.
Confusing fake romance even more with very real sex would be catastrophic. No matter how tempting it is in this odd moment.
And God, is it tempting.
This isn’t how I am with men.
With safe, predictable, pre-heartstabby Liam, it was never like this.
I shake the thought off as I shimmy out of my clothes and walk under the delightfully powerful warm spray.
It feels like half my woes steam away in minutes, swirling away down the drain with the day’s grime. I groan, feeling the pounding hot water in my hair, spattering my shoulders like a ghostly reassuring touch.
Tomorrow will be better.
Tomorrow, we’ll figure out a saner, stable, longer-lasting arrangement that doesn’t involve us being constantly around each other.
Tomorrow, I’ll behave like a reasonable person whose fantasies don’t involve a man who’s paying me mad money to not confuse cruel kisses with honest feelings.
I take my sweet time in the shower. Since I’ve been forced into this luxurious bathroom, I’m going to enjoy it.
When I finally emerge, steam billows up to the ceiling. The heated floors make me wonder if I died in that flood and this is heaven.
Then the door clicks open.
I might have showered, but Dexter Rory hasn’t.
He’s still wearing the same smudged, sweaty shirt, though it’s drier now, his hair still damp from the disaster at my apartment.
I, on the other hand, am as naked as the day I was born.
Full frontal X-rated movie naked.
“Junie,” he whispers, his raspy voice throbbing warmth to my core. I resist the temptation to press my legs together. “Tell me I’m wrong and I’ll go. Tell me you don’t want this and I’ll never bother you again.”
My lips are sealed.
His eyes rake me from head to toe, drinking me in. He’s like a human panther assessing its prey and liking what he sees.
He’s so not wrong.
