The space between us thrums.
Must. Get. Her. Inside.
“Right,” I say, climbing out of the truck. “How about a shower?”
Her eyes go wide, and I don’t miss the flicker of heat in them.
I open her door for her and hold out my hand, laughing. “Not together. Unless—”
“Don’t go there.”
I was joking, but clearly she’s not.
We kick off our boots when we’re inside, and I lead her to the nearest shower. Which just so happens to be the one in my bathroom.
Emma stares at the expanse of glass and tile. Then she looks at the sink nearby, my toiletries neatly arranged on the marble countertop. A beat of charged silence fills the room.
Yeah, my bathroom is legit. But that’s not what this silence is about.
She’s standing in the inner sanctum. Probably the most private room in the house. Now she knows I use Crest toothpaste and an electric razor. She knows I like Molton Brown soap. She knows I’m a secret neat freak.
These are intimate things. The stuff only a girlfriend or wife would know.
The stuff I’d only share with someone who means something to me.
Judging by the way her expression softens, that’s not lost on Emma.
But then she’s shivering again, and she’s trying to peel her clothes off, but she can’t because she’s shaking so hard.
“Help?”
She doesn’t need to ask twice. I gently unbutton her jacket and fold it, draping it over the edge of the nearby tub. Together, we guide her sweater over her head, revealing a black bra with delicate, transparent cups.
Christ Almighty. Her nipples poke against the fabric, tight, pink buds that are just begging to be sucked. A rush of warmth moves through my groin, gathering in the head of my dick.
Draping her sweater over my arm, I turn away. “I’ll let you finish.”
“But my jeans.” I glance over my shoulder to see her unzipping her fly. “I think I’m gonna need your help getting them off.”
I just stare at her, mouth going dry.
Lord Jesus, what am I supposed to do here?
I catch a glimpse of her panties through her fly. They match her bra: black, tiny, see-through.
“Uh,” I say.
Emma is trying to shimmy out of her jeans now, doing that little shake of her hips that’s playful and sexy, but they’re not moving. Her jeans, I mean. She really does need help.
And I’m gonna need to cut off my dick while I prep dinner because I’m hard as a goddamn tree.
Clearing my throat, I discreetly adjust my trousers and nod at the tub. “Sit.”
Emma sits. I squat in front of her, knees cracking. I pull her jeans down one leg at a time, going slowly so I don’t startle or hurt her.
The muscles in her legs convulse as she trembles.
I frown. Her legs are covered in goosebumps.
“But really,” I say. “Is it okay if I put my hands on you?”
She dips her head in a nod. I run my palm over her bare thigh and give it a good, warm squeeze. Emma goes still. Her skin is cold to the touch, and the need to make this better fills me. Her belly rises on an inhale, and I imagine leaning in and kissing her there. Kissing my way down her hip, between her legs. Pushing those fucking panties aside and kissing her pussy.
Emma is (mostly) naked.
She’s in my house.
And she’s trusting me to do the right thing.
Groaning, I rise to my feet. I set her jeans beside her sweater on the tub. Then I strip off my socks and turn on the shower.
Immediately, it fills with steam. Holding the door open, I look at the ceiling.
“Take your time,” I manage. “It’s a good shower. Water pressure’s excellent.”
I glance down at Emma to see her peering inside. “Are those multiple showerheads?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. Yes. And yes, I put them in there for exactly the reason you’re thinking.
Shower sex—actual dick into pussy action—is not worth the hassle. But getting or giving head in the shower? Nothing hotter.
My dick throbs. I shove a towel into Emma’s arms. “Enjoy. Don’t turn that water off until you’re thawed out, all right?”
I head for my closet, where I grab the softest, warmest sweats and sweatshirt I own. Emma will be swimming in ’em, but at least she’ll be warm and dry.
I put on my second softest sweatsuit, an ivory Balenciaga set I recently bought, and try my best to make a beeline through the bathroom again.
“Don’t worry,” I say, cupping my hand over the side of my face as I pass the shower. She’s inside it now, the door closed behind her. “I won’t look.”
“I thought you were being honest these days,” she shoots back, voice echoing off the tile.
“Fine. I’ll look.” And I do.
The glass is fogged up, but I can still see Emma’s outline as she reaches behind her and unhooks her bra. She hangs it over the door, its lacy straps dangling, and then she steps out of her panties. She hangs those over the door too, only they fall to the floor. A tiny black heap that may just be the death of me.
Emma Crawford is in my shower. Naked as the day she was born.
Her see-through panties are on my floor.
Do I have time for a quick tug in the guest bath?
I definitely don’t. But watching Emma shimmy through the glass—yeah, she knows I’m looking, and she doesn’t care—makes me think I might have to.
“Blow-dryer’s on the counter over there,” I say huskily. “Help yourself to whatever else you need.”
Thankfully, I prepped the lasagna last night, so I just have to pop it in the oven. Then I get started on the rest of the meal.
Being in the kitchen, I feel more steady. A little less like I’m gonna die from want. Food is something I’m good at. Food is what I know.
Without exception, food makes me feel centered.
So I decant a bottle of Emma’s Screaming Eagle (I’ll never not think of it as hers). I grill some romaine hearts. Shred a block of aged parmesan and toast day-old focaccia, then cut it into cubes that I’ll use as croutons.
I put the garlic knots in the oven beside the lasagna. Put on a Top 50 playlist I pray is not romantic in any way, shape, or form.
I light a fire in the family room.
All the while silently chanting a litany of affirmations.
You can be friendly.
You can be honest.
You can keep it in your pants.
Emma said living this way may be worth it in the end. But right now, it’s a kick in the balls.
Especially when Emma emerges from the shower. Her wet hair is brushed back from her face. Color in her cheeks. Eyes puffy.
Her vulnerable beauty knocks the wind out of me. She’s not trying to hide.
She’s not trying, period. She’s Emma as is.
She looks fucking adorable in my clothes.
“Hi,” she says. She’s got her phone in her hand.
I nod at it. “Hear from your date?”
“Not yet. I just sent him a message to cancel.”
“Bummer. You warm?”
“Getting there.”
I nod at the fireplace. “Sit by the fire. I’ll bring you some wine.”
“Samuel.” Taking a seat on the raised edge of the hearth, she meets my eyes. “Go easy on me, okay?”