Last night I remembered something—her brother’s set to get back in three weeks. Right at the end of our thirty-day agreement. I’d suggested ninety days at the start.She’sthe one who blurted out a month.
I wonder if the two things are connected. Probably just wanted this over before he got home.
The show is over, and we put away the leftover food for later.
“Going to take a bath,” she says after putting the last of our dishes in the dishwasher. “Then turn in early.”
My pulse ticks up a notch, at the little treat I have in store, but I keep my expression neutral. “Sure. Enjoy.”
The infinity tub in her bathroom could fit three people comfortably, water pouring from a waterfall faucet. You let it run the entire time—it’s part of the design.
After she disappears into her room, I finish clearing the containers from the counter, stack the leftovers neatly in the fridge.
Every few minutes, my eyes drift back to her closed bedroom door.
I walk over once or twice, putting my ear to it and listening. Waiting.
To kill some time, and keep from going insane, I fix the jars in the fridge.
Yes, I tightened every single one, so she’d have to ask for help. Hid all the kitchen ware too. Everything. Right down to the last teaspoon.
Something was going to make her talk to me dammit.
It’s been about thirty minutes when it happens.
A sharp scream cuts through the penthouse, followed by her voice calling my name.
My pulse kicks and I go into acting mode.
I charge down the hall, throw open her door for water to come rushing past my shoes, flooding into the penthouse.
The bathroom floor glistens under the light, and I bite back a grin—this is already better than I expected.
“I don’t know what happened,” she says, panicked. “I thought the water was draining. Jax, I’m so sorry.”
I’m barely listening.
Because she’s standing in the tub, a thin robe clinging to every curve of her naked body. The fabric’s soaked through, nearly transparent. Her black hair is twisted into a messy bun, a few strands sticking to her damp neck.
She looks perfect.
I could pick her up and set her on the bathroom counter right now and sink into her until she’s screaming my name for a very different reason.
Her voice cuts through my thoughts. “Stop staring like a pervert.”
I force myself to blink, to breathe, to remember that this isn’t the moment to lose control.
She starts to step out of the tub, and instinct takes over. “Don’t.” I close the distance and slide my arms under her before she can argue.
Water sloshing with each step.
The tile is slick, and the last thing I need is her cracking her head open.
I lift her easily, bridal style, wading into the water without caring that my shoes are getting drenched, and carry her into my room.
Now she’s pressed against my chest, wet and warm, and every step makes it harder to think about anything except peeling that robe off and seeing if she’s as soft as she looks.
But instead, I set her down in my bathroom, grab one of my towels, and hand it to her.
