“We need to talk first,” she said.
He didn’t disagree. Even though they’d had their reconnection at the fest, they really hadn’t spoken about last night or Amarillo or the past ten years. But he was hard as a rock, and those breasts needed his hands on them. He could see she was fighting instinct, trying to stay restrained, and it only made him want her more.
This woman had been put on this earth to torture him. He couldn’t think of another explanation.
In a flash, her jeans pooled at her ankles, and all that was left was a black lace thong. Brynn wore a thong? Well, after the little shimmy she did to get out of it, he would have to say no. At least, she wasn’t wearing one now.
Holy shit, she was going to drive him insane.
“Get in,” she said, poking a finger into his chest. Jamie’s eyes widened, but he obeyed, stepping into the shower, the water already running. The plan was to head to the hotel in between the two legs of the fest, shower, and return to the beer tent before round two began. They had two hours, and apparently Brynn had an agenda.
He backed against the tiled wall, and she followed him in, beads of water collecting on her nose, her shoulders, her breasts. Her hair clung to the sides of her face, her neck, and yep. This was what insanity felt like—complete and total madness. The water made the cut on her forehead more visible, and her glasses, still on, were starting to fog, but it didn’t matter. Before him was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, one he’d loved since he understood the meaning of the word, and the one, until a couple of hours ago, he thought he’d lost. He ached to touch her, agonized as he stood there staring. But this was not his move to make. He understood that much. So he’d wait her out, even if it killed him.
She started by washing her hair. She stood there, naked in front of him, and washed her hair. Jamie swallowed hard as he watched her, admiring the sight in front of him. When she was done, she pressed the shampoo bottle into his chest but said nothing. So he did the same, washing away the remnants of their time at the fest as well as the pain of waking this morning and thinking Brynn was out of his life for good. As he closed his eyes to rinse, he imagined it was her hands on him rather than his own, but she was winning this war of restraint, one that had him aching for her touch.
“You were never with Spencer?” he asked, needing to break the silence. If he couldn’t touch her yet, he’d at least get her talking. He started by stating what was now the obvious. Other than You’re naked and in my shower and I might explode if I don’t kiss you, this was all that came to mind.
She pushed his shoulders with more force than he expected, and he slid into the shower wall, bracing himself with both arms so he didn’t fall.
“Jesus, Brynn. A little shower safety maybe?”
Her hand flew to her mouth. “Sorry! Ugh. I suck at authoritative seductress.”
He pulled her hand away, wrapped his fingers around her wrist, and tugged her to him.
He breathed her in, still able to distinguish her scent from the rising steam surrounding them, grateful it was no longer masked by the spilled beer.
“Are you seducing me?” he asked, finally cracking a smile. “Because I thought I was in some sort of trouble.”
She gave in and wrapped her arms around him, her breasts firm against his chest. His erection pressed against her stomach, and they both exchanged something between a sigh and a moan.
“Maybe,” she said. “But I was supposed to yell at you first.”
“I deserve it, I guess. But I’m not sure I get it,” he said, his voiced laced with equal amounts pain and desire. “I heard him say you were staying with him. You looked like you were with him, and that dress…” He didn’t want to think about how she looked in that dress, the one he thought she’d worn for another man.
She released her grip on him, not backing away completely but enough so their eyes could meet. She rested her arms on his chest.
Brynn groaned. “You know you infuriate me, right?”
“Part of my charm?”
She shook her head. “Not yet. No being cute until you’re done listening. Got it?”
He nodded. She had the authoritative thing down.
“You put me on a bus, Jamie.”
She might as well have punched him in the gut. Because that’s how the sentence sounded, full of hurt.
“I know. I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I was doing what you needed.”
She shook her head slowly.
“And you didn’t call me.”
He hadn’t, but she needed to know he tried.
“I did. I called you right before I left Holbrook, but it went right to your voicemail. I didn’t want to tell you everything in a message—that I’d messed up, that I loved you and didn’t want to push you away anymore. I had no right to ask you to prove how you felt. I was just—”