An hour! Hardly any time, really.
Once Ryan drops me in front of our building, I dash off toward the lifts, waving at the doorman and receptionist. They congratulate me on the good game and I thank them without stopping. I officially moved in with Logan only a few weeks after we started dating. Kat had a wild change of heart about the whole living together situation after she and Jay had their shotgun wedding, and it’s not like she could keep me from moving out once she had. We offered to cover our portion of the rent for Yasmine, but she could easily afford the entire thing, and she was happy to convert our bedroom into a home office for herself. It all worked out really well, actually. No need to burn anyone’s bras!
Speaking of bras, right when I make it up to our flat, I head for our bedroom. Decisions, decisions. I’ve got quite a bit of lingerie in here. Logan’s got a sweet spot for it. He says it makes it so I’m a present he gets to unwrap slowly. Ooh la la. I pass over the red set he got me for Valentine’s Day, and the black set I wore for him the night he proposed. I settle on a pale blue lacy bra and panties. There are matching stockings and a garter belt too.
With an indulgent smile, I lay the lingerie out on the little bench in the closet and then head for the kitchen. I couldn’t eat dinner earlier—nervous stomach—so I grab a protein bar and chow down, knowing I’ll need my strength for the night ahead. I check my mobile while I eat, scrolling through photos of the game that have already been posted. I linger too long, staring at each one, studying them while I chew slowly. There’s this one close-up shot of Logan on the field, about to throw a pass. His arm is cocked back and his body is stretched taut. In spite of the helmet and pads and uniform (or maybe because of them), he looks absolutely mouthwatering. I love when he’s in his element, all intense. He completely zones out. I could be standing on the sidelines in a cheerleading costume, waving pom-poms, and he wouldn’t even notice. I could strip off the cheerleading costume on the sidelines and wave around my ta-tas, and still, nothing. He only has one goal while he’s on that field, and it’s to win at all costs.
I get a little hot just thinking about it. All that severe, determined concentration…it’s the same way he gets in the bedroom.
I’m forced to use the empty protein bar wrapper to fan my face, but it doesn’t do the trick. Oh well, I need a shower anyway. Just a quick rinse. I got quite sweaty when I was leaping up and down back at the stadium, shouting at our team and their team—anyone, really—and getting a little carried away. It’s a wonder I still have a voice.
In our bathroom, I wrap my hair up in a bun so it doesn’t get wet and step under the hot water in the shower. I use my floral-scented body wash to lather up my arms. There’s nervous energy humming inside me, like I’m a little kid waiting for Santa to leave me presents on Christmas Eve. I exfoliate my arms and legs until my skin is silky smooth. It gets quite steamy in there because the water feels so good and I’m in no rush to get out.
Then, I hear a noise.
The bathroom door opens.
I scream and splay out against the cold marble wall behind me, reaching for anything within my grasp—a loofah. Oh good, that’ll really hurt a robber. Nice going, Candace.
“It’s just me,” Logan says, strolling into the bathroom all cocksure and pleased with himself. He’s wearing athletic shorts and his team’s t-shirt. His hair is still damp with sweat, so it looks inky black.
“What are you doing home already?!” I ask, stepping forward and wiping the glass so I can get a proper look at him.
He reaches back to tug off his t-shirt. “No postgame interviews, just a quick conversation on the field with that ESPN correspondent you like then I hopped in my car.”
“No shower?” I ask as my mouth drops open. Getting a good look at his naked chest will never not stop me in my tracks, even now, when there’s a fresh bruise on his ribs and a red line across his abs. Marks of war.
“No shower,” he replies, pushing his shorts down along with his boxer briefs and stepping out of them. My jaw drops farther.
“Well I’m just about to get out,” I say, like a total git who hasn’t got a clue.
He glances up and locks eyes with me through the glass. “I’ll just join you.”
My heart kicks up as if sending out a signal to my body: Full steam ahead, lads!
“But, I’ve pulled out lingerie,” I say weakly, pointing toward our shared closet.
He doesn’t reply. He moves toward the shower, swings open the glass door, and steps inside. It’s like he’s just sucked all the air out with a vacuum. I struggle to breathe as he comes closer. I think he’s headed for me, but he stops under the stream, letting it soak him from head to toe. He watches me while he does it, or rather, he devours me while he does it. There’s no hiding his true intent as his eyes glide down my body, pausing at my chest and the shadow between my legs.
I know it’s Logan, my fiancé, my best mate, for heaven’s sake! But my body doesn’t seem to catch on. It’s pumping adrenaline through my veins like I need to prepare to escape. I take a step back so I can put a bit more space between us, and in a flash, his hand reaches out and he grasps me by the neck.
I yelp, and he loves it. He tugs me toward him until I’m under the stream too, but there’s no water in my eyes. He’s blocking it with his head so that it rolls down our shoulders and stomach. We’re not touching, but we’re a hair’s breadth away. His soft grip stays on my neck, and his thumb brushes back and forth over my quickening pulse.
“Maybe I’ll let you put the lingerie on later,” he says.
His dark eyes are so hot I feel charred.
He’s looking down at me like he’s concocting all sorts of wicked ideas in his head.
“But first, I need to clean off.”
He nods to the side of the shower, toward the niche where we keep our shampoo and soap bottles.
“Get me some body wash.”
No politeness in his tone. How rude! I shouldn’t listen, but I do, because…well, look at the man.
I get some soap and don’t wait for him to tell me what to do. I know what he wants. I start at his broad shoulders, dragging my hands over his arms. At times, it feels like there’s so much of him compared to me, like I’ll be here for days washing him off. With arms that size, sheesh. I get some more soap and move to his chest. He winces gently when I brush my hand over the bruise at his ribs and then I bend down to kiss the skin, letting him know I’m sorry he’s hurt.
I know he likes my lips on him. I can see it for myself, the way he starts to harden the farther I go down. The soap slides down his rippling abs, coating his skin as I bend lower. I kiss a trail down to his hips, and then gently, I touch him, soaping up his hardness, pretending to clean him off.
It’s really a guise. I don’t need to be nearly this thorough. After two passes, one could argue that he’s properly clean down there, but I have no plans on stopping. He doesn’t say a word as he watches me continue. I look up and he eclipses the shower light, casting me in shadow. He looks like the devil.
I pause for a moment, and his mouth twitches.
“Keep going,” he instructs brusquely.
Oh, tsk tsk. Someone needs to learn a little patience.