He gently soaped me, starting at my neck and working down my back, down my legs and then up my front. His blunt fingers ran the soap between my legs and then up to my breasts, reminiscent of our last time in the shower together. My body remembered, getting hot and wet. That had been good, if a little too acrobatic for my current physical state. We would just have to move slower, maybe find a nice position that involved sitting completely still.
I slid my hand down to the wet fabric of his boxers and gripped his cock. He moved my hand away.
“You don’t want me?” I pouted. It was a game.
He shook his head. “Not now.”
And then it wasn’t. “Are you serious?”
“I don’t always have to want sex.”
I narrowed my gaze to his erection, covered in wet cloth but obvious. “I think you do.”
“I said I don’t.”
“Then why did you come in here with me?” I asked, honestly confused.
“You had a concussion. You might be unsteady and slip.”
“Fine,” I said. “So this isn’t about sex. You’re mad at me. I know you’re mad. Can we just talk about it?”
He turned off the water. Cold air sucked into the stall, pebbling my skin. “Christ,” I said.
Colin stepped from the shower and helped me out. Then he tossed a towel in my arms and stalked out, still dripping water, his wet boxers sagging from his hips.
Okay, I supposed we were done talking. I dried off and put on one of my oversize sleep shirts. The bed was plush and warm and wonderful. I’d wanted to wait for him, I’d wanted to fix this, but I fell asleep.
We slept in the same bed, as usual. Side by side, though, not touching.
The next morning was the same, or maybe even worse. Colin made breakfast. He cleared the table. He even took Bailey for a walk. Anything but talk to me.
And the next day Colin catered to my every need, still managing to maintain his silent treatment. The day after, Colin went to the restaurant for a few hours, but only while Bailey and I were napping. The rest of the time was spent covering me with blankets or handing me new things to read, but he seemed to be talking less as the days went by.
Somehow he’d managed to punish and care for me at the same time. The more I pushed him to talk, the quieter and the more helpful he would become. It would be impressive if it weren’t so frustrating.
Chapter Nine
“So let me get this straight,” Shelly said. “He’s making you meals, doing all the housework, and not even asking for sex, and you’re complaining.”
“I actually like sex with him,” I said. “But okay, when you put it like that, it sounds stupid.”
I pulled out a vase from the box and held it up. “This definitely isn’t yours.”
She shrugged. “Just stick it on the mantel.”
“You’re in a downtown loft. There’s no fireplace.”
“Whatever.”
I set it down on the dining table, next to the growing collection of rich-ass things Philip had packed in Shelly’s boxes. So far I’d found a heavy crystal clock, a figurine of a dolphin, and an oriental fan folded accordion-style. Leave it to Philip to do the breakup box backward, putting in extra stuff rather than leaving a few things out. I was surprised he’d even packed them himself, but I figured if anyone was giving away hundreds of dollars’ worth of junk from Philip’s place, it was Philip. No one else would dare.
Shelly had been released from the hospital yesterday. I’d picked her up with Bailey. Colin hadn’t wanted me out of the house yet, hadn’t thought I was ready, but I insisted. Poor Rose had suffered the position of in-between as we’d had Shelly’s belongings brought to Colin’s house and then forwarded on to her new condo.
No way was she going back to the mansion, not being suicidal and all. Philip had helped her after she’d been shot, sure. She had saved his life, after all. But since then, he’d had time to think, maybe about how she’d betrayed him while living under his roof and on his dime. There was no reason to press her luck.
It had surprised me, though, that she hadn’t moved in with her cop. Sure, I had only just found out about them, but they’d seemed…intimate. But no, she told me when I asked, they weren’t a couple. They’d never even had sex, paid or otherwise. There was something there, of course, but it wasn’t enough.
We stood in the fancy furnished apartment, boxes piled high in the large foyer.
“Bailey, no!” I grabbed the painting, but she’d already torn the corner.
I shoved the canvas back into place. It curled up. I stared at the ruined painting of geometrical shapes.
“Please tell me Philip likes to paint. Or he’s one of those guys who likes to support local college kids by buying cheap art.”
“Nope,” Shelly said, sounding almost pleased. “He’s got an art dealer. All famous stuff.”
“Damn,” I said.
Bailey toddled over to Shelly, who handed her a golf-ball-sized rock that looked suspiciously like an emerald.
“Tell me again why we aren’t taking this stuff back,” I said.
“It’s part of the game,” she explained. “That’s why he likes me, because I know how to play.”
“Only rich people would throw away expensive shit for fun,” I grumbled.
“Don’t judge, Allie baby. We’re all mad here.”