I climbed out and wrapped myself in my soft robe, shoving my wet hair back. I felt better because I was cleaner, but I still felt ready to come out of my skin. I paced in a circle in my bathroom. I thought about Lucas’ face when I came into the clinic.
Before the clinician kicked in, he’d been terrified. Because he thought I was hurt? I thought about how I must have looked, half covered in blood, half out of my mind. He was worried about me, about what might have happened to me.
And then watching him, his tender care for the dog, the purpose of every action, the utter command he had of the situation. He was incredible. And, he was leaving. In a little over a day. For twelve weeks.
Hot tears came again, running down my cheeks. My nights and weekends were leaving. And who was I kidding? My days too.
I paced faster, wrapping my arms around myself, then swinging them wildly. I was antsy, I was angry, I was frustrated, I was empty, I was . . . aching. Literally aching. I needed. I wanted.
I left my room, went down the hall, heard the water still running in the guest bath, and opened the door without thought. I could see his shape through the glass door, foggy and fuzzy but there, just on the other side of the glass and steam.
Had I taken even half a moment to stop and think about what I was about to do, I would have stopped. I would have backed away, put on my pajamas, made some coffee, and been waiting with toast when he came out.
I slipped out of my robe, opened the glass door, and moved in behind him.
“Chloe,” he said. It came out rough and low and heated. He was facing away from me, his head tilted down, arms stretching out to press against the wall.
I reached out with one hand, brushing lightly with my fingertips, and ran it along his spine. His back was strong and muscled, muscles that shifted under his skin as I touched him. Freckles on his shoulders, a tiny scar on his left side just above his narrow waist. I kissed it, and he groaned. “Chloe,” he repeated, his hands now curling into fists as his entire body thrummed with tension.
“Yes,” I replied. He turned slowly, water dripping down through his gorgeous hair, his eyes burning as they traveled over my naked body. I didn’t flinch under his gaze; his stare made me bold, and I arched my back and let him look.
“You don’t need to do this,” he said, looking for any sign of me backing away or changing my mind.
“You’re wrong,” I murmured, stepping into the spray, stepping into him, pressing my chest against his and burying my hands in the back of his head. “I absolutely need to do this.”
As my lips neared his, I met his eyes, his gaze heating me through and telling me that yes, this was absolutely the best idea ever. I knew I could sneak a kiss, pretend to be confused because of the emotions of the evening, and he’d let me get away with it. I knew this would complicate things; I knew this would make it impossible to go back to what we had before. But I didn’t want what we had before. I wanted, hell, I needed more. I instinctively ran in the opposite direction, and brought his mouth to mine.
Soft, incredibly soft lips brushed against mine once, twice, and then again. I sighed into his mouth as his hands settled on my hips. I could kiss this man for a year. He stepped between my legs, pushing me toward the back of the shower, and I moaned against his lips, feeling the length of his body pressing into mine as I twisted to feel more of him, needing as many points of contact as I could get.
I delighted in the feel of lips on mine, his mouth teasing at my own as my hands roamed in his hair. “Do you have any idea,” I said as our kiss broke and he tilted my head back to press his mouth against my neck, “how much I love your hair? I never told you, but gingers make me crazy.” I groaned as he sucked at the skin below my ear. “The second I saw you, I thought, this is the sexiest man I have ever seen.” I pressed wet kisses against his collarbone.
He ran his hands up and down my back. “The first time I saw you, at that restaurant, I knew I wanted to see you naked. As soon as possible.”
“And here I am,” I murmured, stepping back so he could take a good look. “Naked.”
His eyes smoldered as his gaze swept across my body. “Chloe,” he whispered. “You’re perfection.”
I purred, I actually purred, dragging my hands down his torso, over the defined muscles in his chest, the tiny little hairs that gathered there. Letting my gaze follow my hands, I decided to sneak a peek as well. “Mmm, and you’re—holy sweet fuck, are you kidding me?”
Here’s the thing about an enormous penis. They don’t just live in romance novels. They don’t just live on famous actors, although John Hamm and Michael Fassbender need to admit a certain ginger vet into their Big Cock Club. They’re real. And they’re out there. Right here, even, in my guest shower.
For every peanut, there is an eggplant. For every Charles, there is a Lucas. And since I’d had one, I feel I deserved the other.
My “Holy sweet fuck, are you kidding me?” still ricocheted off the tiles, bouncing off his shocked face.