But Clara didn’t play fair. She tipped her head back ever so slightly into his hands. He found himself slowing down, watching as her mouth fell open a little when he applied the right amount of pressure. She made tiny noises, breathy little moans, and he didn’t know if they were signals of pleasure or pain.
“Is this okay?”
Clara bit her lip and nodded.
What was happening to him? He felt insane. Hadn’t he done things fifty times filthier than this with five times as many women involved? Why was he falling to pieces over washing the hair of a pocket-sized WASP?
He kept his hands moving, down to the base of her skull, where he pressed in with his thumbs, making her gasp. It was becoming impossible to remember that this wasn’t supposed to be foreplay, especially when he could easily see her puckered nipples over her shoulder.
After what felt like a million years strung up on a rack, it was time to rinse the suds from her scalp. He guided her under the spray of the shower, avoiding any unnecessary touching. He received a brief reprieve when the water ran clear . . . before he realized he still had ninety percent of her body to cover.
“Just gonna keep washing.” He broadcast his mission for both of their sakes.
“Okay,” Clara said, but kept her eyes closed. Probably so she could pretend this wasn’t happening.
He picked up her body wash next, his eyes lingering on her lime green loofah. But as much as he knew he should, Josh couldn’t bring himself to give up direct contact with her skin. The cool liquid heated quickly in his palm. Clara was so much smaller than him. He’d have to kneel to reach the bottom half of her.
Luckily the shower was long enough for him to come to his knees. Contact with the hard, cold floor momentarily brought his body out of overdrive.
“Hold on,” he said, not knowing whether he spoke to her or himself.
Her eyes fluttered open like a princess waking from a dream, and he helped her put her hand on his shoulder for balance as he picked up her left foot and placed it on his bent thigh.
Any pretense of humility seemed to have burned up between them, replaced by another hot, pulsing emotion, as she bent forward to comply. Surely she was aware that this position presented him with an unobstructed view of her pussy?
He ran his soap-slick hands across her foot and around her ankle, massaging his way up her calf. Her thigh was taut as he glossed over it, and by the time his fingers reached her ass, she was thrusting her hips forward, issuing an invitation he didn’t have the strength to refuse.
“Please don’t do that,” he choked out. “Clara, I can’t stand it.”
Her eyes shot open. “I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t trying to imply—I’m sorry.” She went to turn off the shower, half her body covered in soap.
“No.” The word came out too loud, ringing in the small space. He corrected his volume. “It’s fine, remember?” Josh gritted his teeth. “Try to hold still.”
He sped through washing the rest of her body, feeling like Keanu trying to defuse a bomb. Clara didn’t close her eyes again.
Finally, he finished rinsing the thin skin behind her ears. He stepped back until his back pressed against the cold glass wall. “There. Done.”
He deserved a fucking medal.
“Great,” Clara said, standing under the spray with unsure eyes. “Thank you. For helping me.” She curled her shoulders in.
Josh should probably make an excuse for his hard-on. There weren’t enough dentists in the state to temper how much he wanted to fuck her right now. Of course, he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Even if she wanted to. Even if she begged him. Oh sweet Jesus, please don’t let her beg.
Why again? Oh right. Because he’d promised Naomi. He couldn’t break his word. His vow. Shameless had come so far in the last few weeks. People were counting on him. He was finally making something important.
Clara took a step toward him, and then another, until he could have stuck out his tongue and licked her lips.
“What are you doing?” His voice came out gruffer than a cement mixer. Naomi screamed in his head. No. Stop. Don’t.
Clara closed her eyes and tilted her head slightly, carefully.
Josh brought a shaking hand up to cradle her face. He wanted to kiss her so much it hurt. Had dreamed about tasting her so many times he lost count. Kissing Clara had become imperative. As if her full bottom lip held the antidote to a poison that had been pumping through his veins for months. All of the arguments against this moment flickered from his brain like blown bulbs.
Fuck it. He closed the last inch between them. Until their wet bodies pressed together from knees to chest.
Clara slipped and almost fell, squeaking as her chin landed against his shoulder.
Josh caught her under her arms. “Are you all right?”
She brought a hand to her head. “Yeah, I think so. I feel a little dizzy.”
Shit. What if she had a concussion and they’d missed it? He grabbed a towel and wrapped it carefully around her before guiding her to sit on the closed toilet seat. “Stay here and put your head between your legs.” That was what they said on TV, right? “I’ll go get you a glass of water.”
“Josh, I’m fine. It passed.” She held out her hand and looked up at him, beads of water caught on her eyelashes.
“Don’t worry,” he said, backing out of the bathroom in his sopping briefs. “I’m not going to let anything else hurt you.” Especially me.
chapter twenty-five
JOSH TREATED CLARA like a pneumonia patient for the rest of the week. He went out and bought her chicken noodle soup and orange juice, both with and without pulp, despite her protests that there was nothing wrong with her immune system.
He flat-out refused to let her come to the studio after work, instead dictating that she needed time off to rest.
So tonight, while Josh instructed hot people how to get each other off, Clara found herself relegated to the more commonly accepted Clara Wheaton Friday night activity of cleaning out the inside of the fridge. She might even go crazy and descale the coffee maker.
Josh’s message came through loud and clear. He didn’t want her. Despite whatever “signs” her desperate heart presumed to detect, he’d gone so far as to run from the room when she offered him her naked body on a silver platter.
Apparently, sometimes a raging hard-on was nothing more than a biological consequence.
When the doorbell rang, she didn’t bother removing her yellow rubber gloves before answering it.
“Are you Ms. Wheaton?” The delivery guy held a stunning bouquet.
“I am.” She signed her name and carefully accepted the colorful flowers, waiting until she had her back to the closed door to stick her face in the middle of them and inhale. The manicured stems contrasted vividly with the plastic-wrapped wildflowers Josh had brought to the hospital.