“It both thrills and vexes me that you’re a dude who knows about Sephora.”
“And Chico’s,” I tell her, enjoying how easy this all is—even when we’re talking like this in the shower. “Also a place not often frequented by men, but Chico’s is my Grams’s jam. Come to think of it, Mom is a huge fan of Coldwater Creek.” I pause, sudsy fingers deep in her hair. “Jesus, my weekends are dominated by chauffeuring the women in my life.”
“A nice counterbalance to the weeknights dominated by chauffeuring the women in your phone.”
I feel the way we both go still under the water. Just when I think it’s easy between us, just when we’re both unwinding, she goes there.
“Did I say that out loud?” she asks, turning her head but eyes squeezed shut against the slow drip of suds down her forehead.
“You did.”
“And are you glaring at me?”
“No.” But I won’t lie to myself and pretend her impression of me doesn’t sting a little. I put my hands on her shoulders, guiding her around to face me. I wipe the soap from her brows, murmuring, “Rinse.”
I can see in my peripheral vision that she’s watching my face while I coax the water through her hair, rinsing away the suds, but instead of meeting her eyes, I focus on my hands.
“Logan?”
She smiles. “Yeah?”
“Why did you come over here again?” I ask her quietly.
She reaches for the soap and I shiver when her hands press to my stomach and slide up over my chest. “I’m not sure.” She meets my eyes and gives me a sweet, tiny grin. “Sorry I was rude.”
“You were taking your self-loathing out on me, I think. But then, you didn’t have to come over here.”
Her grin turns into a wide, dimpled smile. “You’re not going to goad me into becoming one of the girls in your phone who insist they never do this kind of thing.”
“I’m not trying to goad you. It’s just that in your case, it seems to be true. Even if you hadn’t told me our first night together, I would bet you never do this kind of thing. Not that there would be anything wrong if you did.”
She nods, and watches her hands as she lathers up my chest, my shoulders. I can barely hear her answer over the pounding water: “The sex was good. And I figured you were the kind of guy who can keep it just about sex, which is all I want right now.”
“I can.”
I think.
I mean, it’s never been a problem before, but I’m troubled by how much I want her to like me. “I’m going to be honest, though. You sort of suck at it.” Her mouth drops open when I say this, and I quickly add, “Not the sex part—you’re very good at that part, if memory serves—but the part where it’s just about having fun sex together.”
Her blue eyes flash up to mine. “What do you mean? I’m not getting emotional on you.”
I laugh at her quick defense, tickling her sides. “I mean, you’re sort of a jerk to me.”
She giggles. “I’m sorry! I swear I’m not a jerk. I just . . . I don’t want to date, and the kind of guy I would date anyway is nothing like you, but here I am . . . for sex. So yeah, maybe some self-loathing . . . which makes me into a jerk.”
I’m trying to ignore the insult in there. “What kind of guy do you date?”
She looks up at me quizzically. “I don’t.”
I sigh in exasperation, squeezing conditioner into my palm while she washes my arms. I slide my fingers into her hair, saying, “I mean, you’re saying I’m not your type. What is your type?”
“Bearded. Laid-back. Tattoos.”
“Mustard yellow cord-wearing craft brewer?” I ask, and she laughs. “The kind of man who is heavily invested in his mustache wax, so he can get the upturned points just right?”
“Something like that.” Her hands move back to my chest, down my stomach again. With her eyes on my face, she reaches lower, sliding a soapy hand down my cock.
Her cheeks flush and I shiver, eyes rolling closed as I jump in her palm. I want to tell her it feels good, I want to kiss her, but I’m immediately so consumed by the feel of her touching me that I’m stuck in place, water running down my face.
She lets out a little moan when her hand slides over the head of my cock.
“Not your type at all,” I tease.
Her mouth presses to my collarbone. “Nope, not even a little.”
She works her hand over me, slowly squeezing, and then stretches to kiss up my neck.
I cup her face, tilting her to look up at me. “We don’t have to do this.”
London stares at me, breathing in, breathing out. “We don’t?”