Page 60 of Stealing Blinds

I’d guess she’s not keen on celebrating her birthday because her father died within a few days of it. I’m sure that anniversary taints this entire week. But there’s more than grief laced through her words.

“Not any girl, Sylv.” I drag my thumb along her swollen lip. “You.”

She nods and works through what appears to be a laborious swallow. “Mind if I change? I’ll be quick.”

I push her ballerina-inspired cardigan aside and slip a finger under the strap of her tank top, gliding it back and forth over her shoulder. “I can help with that.”

“I’m sure you could.” She smiles, reaching up to brush my cheek with a hint of melancholy. “I’ll only be a minute.”

There’s a whisper inside me, warning me that she’s retreating, but maybe taking a moment to breathe and freshen up is good for both of us.

“Of course.” I plant a quick, reassuring kiss on her mouth. “I’ll be waiting.”

After she makes her way into my bathroom, I run to Maddox’s old room to clean myself up. And that brief reprieve is fucking torture. The internal commentary from earlier goes hog wild, to the point at which there is a two-sided debate ensuing in my mind.

She’s going to freak out and bolt because I couldn’t take it slow.

How much slower could I take it? I came in my pants like a teenager.

It doesn’t matter. She was in her head before she went to the bathroom.

So, I need to get her the fuck out of her head. Carefully.

Shit, I’m so out of my depth here. I’m going to screw this up, and I don’t even know what the hell this is.

Since my brain has officially revolted against me, I finish washing up and stride back to my room. The shower is running, and I don’t know why that sets something off inside me, but it does.

I knock, and her response of, “Be out soon,” echoes from within the streaming water, so I waltz in.

Her mouth pops open with shock, but she doesn’t cover herself or chastise me for barging in. She keeps lathering herself with those seductive ambers fixed on me. “Patience is not your strong suit, I see.”

Jesus, I was not prepared to open that damn door. For a split second, I permit myself to spiral. My gaze traces every ravishing inch of her as I pace with my fist against my mouth.

Beyond my imagination is the understatement of my life. Athletic but round and supple and so … tan and wet. My vision starts to cloud around the edges. I’m so fucked.

To center myself, I concentrate on everything else. Steam billows near the ceiling. It’s a large space, filled with a black claw-foot tub in front of a wall of windows that highlights the Big Easy and a glass-and-stone shower with a small fireplace. The counter that runs the entire length of the room is strewn with the money she won and her beauty products—vanilla-bourbon lotion and Valentino Donna perfume. Noted.

After a beat, I pull myself together, masking my untethered condition with sternness.

“I would argue that I’ve been incredibly patient in the grand scheme of our …” I tread to the glass door, pull it open, and flip my hand between us. “This. But you said you’d only be a minute, and if you’d mentioned a shower, I would have protested.”

Careful not to get her hair wet, she leans further beneath the showerhead, rinsing herself—which brings her closer to me—her brows knitting together. “Why?”

In answer, I reach through the rainfall stream, grip her hips, and cart her to the other side of the room. Water cascades off her in a sheet, sprinkling the tiled floor with puddles and soaking my clothing.

“What the hell, Noire?” she shrieks, not for the first time.

It might be a new personal mission to make her utter that exasperation as often as possible, but right now, I settle for clearing things up.

Despite how right she feels in my arms, pressed against me, I throw a hand towel down so she doesn’t slip and park her sweet ass on an empty spot of the bathroom counter, soap bubbles bursting beside her. “You were already exactly how I wanted you, Sylvie.”

Her veil of confidence slips ever so slightly, revealing a hint of vulnerability in her glossy eyes—the fucked-up worry that she’s not enough—before she throws her arms behind her, arching her back and forcing her perky tits front and center. “Sweaty?”

“Yes.” I lift her sore ankle, pleased when I find it wasn’t aggravated by her jumping around tonight. I set that heel and the other one on the edge of the black soapstone countertop, spreading her wide open. “And wet because you came so pretty for me.”

“And you for me,” she taunts with a smug grin.

“And me for you,” I agree, aware that empowered her.