Ten minutes later, steam drenches the bathroom, fogging my reflection in the mirror as well as the shower door behind me. The splash of water against tiles broadcasts her movements as the woodsy scent of my shampoo infuses my inhales. There’s something deeply satisfying about her using my things, smelling like me, and making herself at home in my space.
While she showers, I wash my dick at the sink, both appalled and riveted by the fact that I jizzed in my briefs. I haven’t done that since high school. But it shouldn’t surprise me. I’ve been jacking off like a fucking fiend for weeks.
It takes every ounce of restraint I have left to not join her in the shower. I want to fuck her thoroughly, completely, and in every way imaginable, but I have to prove to her I’m not like the others. Every step with her is a risk, and there are still so many unanswered questions.
I clean my knuckles and lather them in antibiotic cream from the supplies beneath the sink. “Are you on birth control?”
Her misty silhouette freezes behind the shower door. “No.”
I turn to face her, straining to make out the shape of her body in the curl of steam. “Do you use condoms?”
She presses a palm against the glass door, as if to steady herself. “When I can.”
My fist clenches, but the next thing I punch should be my own stupid mouth. Could I be anymore heartless? Of course, she doesn’t always use condoms. If a man doesn’t stop at no, he’s certainly not pausing to wrap up.
I manage to hold my temper in, but the rapid-fire of my pulse and the rage scorching up my spine propels me out of the bathroom.
“I’ll set out something for you to wear,” I shout from the bedroom. “Meet me in the kitchen.”
Tossing one of my t-shirts on the bed for her, I strip my clothes and drag on a pair of flannel pants.
On my way out, I grab my phone and make a call to my dad’s clinic. As expected, it goes to voice mail. My bare feet pad down the carpeted stairs and into the kitchen as I tell the recorder who I am and what I require.
I could’ve called my dad to schedule her appointment, but I don’t want to field his questions tonight. Not when I still don’t have all the answers.
By the time she emerges in the kitchen doorway, I have two plates of heated linguine carbonara set out on the island.
She hovers on the threshold, her deep brown eyes darting between the food and my bare chest. Her expression creases with every emotion in existence before softening with a smile. “You cooked?”
“My catering service did.” I grab two glasses and a pitcher of sweet tea. “The oven warmed it up.”
She approaches the island, tugging the mid-thigh shirt down her tanned legs. Her long wet hair soaks the white cotton against her chest, revealing taut nipples and delicate shoulders. I find it impossible to look away. It’s as if every fiber of my being is tied to hers, and every movement she makes moves me, pulling me closer, deeper.
I never stood a chance.
“Thank you.” She sits on the bar stool, tucking the hem of the shirt between her legs. “This smells incredible.”
I settle on the stool beside her, twisting to face her, and stab a fork into the noodles.
Her eyes return to my chest.
I arch a brow. “What?”
She holds a finger in front of me, tapping the air as her concentration travels from my shoulders to my waist.
Is she counting?
Fuck me, my pecs bounce. All she has to do is look at me and my body reacts.
She drops her hand and turns to her dinner, mumbling, “Twelve indentations and ten muscly bumps.”
I glance down, trying to make sense of her numbers. I spend two hours a day, seven days a week in my home gym, honing my physique into tiptop shape for the same reason every other guy works out. To get laid. But now I want to hit the weights just to watch her count my muscles again.
She sucks a noodle off her fork, grinning. “You don’t look like a teacher.”
“You don’t look like a student.”
Her smile disintegrates.
I wipe a hand down my face, wishing I could call back those words. How many times have her looks attracted the wrong kind of attention? She attracted me.
She waves her fork up and down the length of my body. “You’d make more money modeling than teaching.”
“Do I look like I need money?”
“Good point.” She scans the kitchen, taking in the high-end appliances that never get used. She doesn’t ask about the source of my wealth, but I know she’s wondering.
I swallow a buttery bite of pasta and twirl more noodles around my fork. “My family holds the patent on the wooden bracings in pianos.”
“Wow. Really?”
“Really. So money is not my incentive for working.”
“Why work at all? You could live on a yacht, drink rum, and grow a smelly beard.” Her eyebrows lift. “Like a pirate.”
“A pirate.” My lips twitch. “As appealing as that sounds, boredom doesn’t suit me.” I would lose my fucking mind. “I need challenge and self-earned success, and I find those things playing piano, teaching…” I give her a narrowed look. “And disciplining.”
Her eyes flicker. “You’re very good at that last one.”
“But not the others?”
A sly grin pulls at the corner of her mouth. “I’ve never heard you play.”
“I play every night.” Except I won’t be able to tonight.