*
For an instant Bobby thought Raye would run. Then she lost the shirt, and her dark hair tumbled over one of those exquisite breasts. She’d been chewing on her lips and they were red, causing him to think again of Snow White. Did that make him the Huntsman?
She put her hand in his and stepped beneath the water, lifting her face to the stream, arching her long, slim, white neck like a doe worshipping the moon. He was so star-struck by the sight that he didn’t shut the curtain until the sound of water peppering the tile made him snatch the end and drag it closed.
She resembled a nymph beneath a waterfall, a mermaid in the surf. And for tonight, at least, she was his.
He reached for the soap; she got there first, holding it out of reach.
“Let me,” she said. Who was he to argue?
She lathered his chest, his arms and legs and what lay between. He had to still her hand before he lost what he’d saved just for her. He faced the water, to rinse and catch his breath. She soaped his shoulders, his spine, a bit lower, but when her fingertips ran over his hip, he flinched.
Her hands stilled. “What’s wrong?”
He twisted, but the area that felt as if it had been scrubbed raw was too far around to see. “Something must have hit me in the explosion.”
She brushed her hand over him again and this time he hissed. She lifted her eyes. There was something in them he didn’t like. Did he have a chunk of the house stuck in him? He would have noticed that before now.
“What is it?”
“Just a scrape.” Her mouth smiled; her eyes didn’t. “I have something for it when we’re done.”
It didn’t occur to him then to wonder how he’d gotten scraped so badly with his clothes on. He had better things to wonder about. For instance, how would her breasts taste beneath the water? How smooth would her skin be in rain? What would she sound like when he entered her? Could he last long enough to make her come again? How, precisely, did one have sex in a shower?
His answers came in a rush. She tasted like heat; she felt like cream. When he entered her, she whispered his name. The sound, the scent, the feel of her all around made him desperate. He had to still his body, move his hand along hers, and recite the Miranda warning lest he finish long before she did.
As for how? Several ways—her back against the wall, then his. Her cheek pressed to the tile as he slipped in from behind. Then atop a pile of towels on the floor, him watching her face bloom in wonder, that sight making him lose his last hold on control and empty himself, body and soul.
He lay with his head against her breasts as the damp slowly cooled them. The shower still ran, the sound like rain, the steam a summer fog.
“We should get up.”
“Mmm,” she agreed. Her fingers stroking his back. Neither of them moved.
He wasn’t sure how long they lay there but when he next opened his eyes, the steam was gone, though the mirror over the sink remained fogged. He’d slid to the side, resting his uninjured hip on the floor, his leg thrown over hers. The color that had been in her face had faded. She appeared as tired as he felt. All he wanted was to climb in bed and sleep for a day.
With her.
He withdrew his leg; she reached for him—lethargic, she missed. He sat up and turned off what must now be ice water. Her eyes opened, and she smiled. His heart went ka-boom.
He stood, grabbed a towel, and wiped the mirror. His reflection looked the same as always. Why was he so surprised?
“You okay?” Raye shoved her wild, dark hair out of her face. The way she sat there, naked, staring up at him made him want her all over again.
“Yeah.”
“Want a drink?” she asked.
“Hell, yeah.”
Her laughter made his gut clench. How could anyone want to remove laughter like that from this earth?
He offered a hand. His palm tingled when it met hers. He released her, and she rubbed hers along her hip as if it stung. When he did the same the slice of pain caused him to crane his neck so he could see his back in the mirror.
“That’s not a scrape,” he murmured. “That’s a bruise.”
“Does it matter?”
“A kindergarten teacher should know the difference.”
“I was distracted.”
Join the club.
She reached past him, opened the mirror, behind which lay a medicine cabinet. He caught a glimpse of aspirin and cough medicine, as well as a circular pill container marked with the days of the week. At least he wouldn’t have to run out for condoms. He thought he’d just used his last one.
Raye withdrew a blue and white tube of ointment. “This will help.”
“What is it?” he asked, but he offered his hip. If she planned to smooth it on with her fingers he didn’t care if she used turpentine.
“Arnica. I use it for my bruises.”
His gaze lowered to her arm, where she’d had some only a few days past. She didn’t any more.