Page 88 of People Like Us

August’s grin spread slow and crooked, dimples cutting into his cheeks. “Surely not sleeping in a misfit’s bed.”

Warmth flooded through me at the thought. I laughed quietly. “Is that a yes?”

His expression softened instantly. “Yeah,” he said, almost shyly. “Of course it is.” August swallowed hard, his fingers tightened slightly around mine before he asked carefully, “Is it okay if I ask you to shower before we go to bed?”

The question was gentle. Embarrassed around the edges. I nodded immediately. “Yeah. “Do you want to shower with me?” I asked softly.

August went completely still. His eyes searched mine with something dangerously close to panic, like he was trying to figure out whether this was a trap he’d ruin by stepping into.

“You’re allowed to say no,” I whispered quickly.

August looked almost pained by that. “I don’t want to say no to you,” he admitted quietly. “Ever.” His voice roughened around the edges. “I just…”

The words died somewhere inside him. I understood anyway. It wasn’t me he feared. It was himself.

“It’s okay,” I said softly.

The relief on his face hurt worse than rejection could have. August stepped away from me then, slow and reluctant, like peeling himself loose cost him something physical. The loss of his warmth made the room suddenly feel colder. He moved toward the shower, pulling back the curtain to turn the hot water on.

The shower hissed steadily behind us, filling the tiny bathroom with the smell of clean steam and masculine soap. I watched him for a moment beneath the candlelight—the nervous tension sitting high in his shoulders now that we’d drifted back toward reality.

Toward all the places his mind liked to hurt him.

“I’ll get you clothes to sleep in,” he murmured, as he tapped the handle three times.

A pause. Three more taps. A pause. Another three taps.

“That’d be nice,” I teased lightly. “I’d rather not sleep in this dress.”

He glanced over his shoulder at me, cheeks flushing that beautiful coral color again. “I mean,” he said dryly, “you could. But I think the fabric might wrinkle.”

I gasped softly. “You’re insulting my craftsmanship?”

“I would never.” But his smile lingered. It looked dangerous on him because it made him seem hopeful.

Chapter Thirty-Four

When August returned to the bathroom with a T-shirt and sweatpants folded neatly together, my dress already sat in a puddle on the floor at my feet. His eyes snapped to my bare chest, pupils darkening, as his throat worked hard.

“Fuck,” he rasped, placing the clothes on the counter without tearing his eyes from my figure. He stepped toward me, dropping to his knees. He held my gaze as he hooked his fingers into the thin strings at my hips and began to guide the small triangle of fabric covering my center down my legs.

I stepped out of the thong, my hands pressed to his shoulders. August’s gaze dropped to the open invitation of my parted thighs, and I could feel the electric heat pooling there as he licked his lips. I ran my fingers through his hair, stiff with product.

“Tell me what you want,” I whispered, heart pounding.

He breathed in, as if sucking desire deep into his lungs. His voice came out husky, “Can I watch you?”

“Watch me what?”

“Do everything,” he said, a wicked curve at his lips. “I want to watch you touch yourself.”

I stepped into the shower, the water hot like wildfire across my sensitive skin, as I pushed the curtain all the way back to the wall. I took my time, letting the water run over me as I washed my hair and body. When I squeezed August’s body wash onto the washcloth he gave me I held the bottle up to my nose and inhaled the smell of cedar.

August leaned against the counter, the tiny tea lights casting a halo around him as his hand gripped the marble edge.

“You look hot,” I said, the steam in the room clinging to his skin. He gave a slight lift of his shoulders as his eyes tracked the slow movement of my hand guiding across my body. “Take the shirt off for me?”

His hands moved slowly, undoing each button at an aching pace. I knew he was dragging it on purpose, the same way I was. I wanted to climb out of the shower and press my soaking wet body to his. Or to pull him underneath the stream with me. But I willed myself to stay exactly where I was, my eyes fixated on the taught line of his shoulders as he pulled the shirt off, and folded it before placing it neatly on the counter next to the T-shirt and sweats he’d left out for me.