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This orgasm is more intense.
"Nick." My breath is ragged as I come down. My thoughts are incoherent.
"Come here." He shifts our positions so he's on top of me. His hand stays around my wrists as he thrusts into me.
Faster. Harder. Deeper.
My sex pulses from the wealth of sensation.
His groans fill me with a different kind of need. It's as good as my orgasm. Better even.
I soak in every bit of his pleasure as he comes. His lips part, and they go to my neck. His kiss is soft. Tender.
"Nick." I arch my hips to feel the pulsing of his orgasm.
One last thrust and he's finished. He collapses next to me. His lips go to my forehead.
We haven't kissed. Morning breath. Well, middle of the night breath.
Nick discards the condom and returns to the bed. He plops next to me and runs his fingertips along the neckline of my dress. "Join me in the shower."
My nod fails to express my enthusiasm. I take his hand and follow him into the bathroom. I didn't notice the room last time I was here. It's huge with a glass shower the size of my apartment.
"How many people fit in here?" I pull my dress over my head and leave it on the floor.
Nick looks at the mess with faux outrage. "I've only tried myself."
"Really?"
"I don't bring women home."
"Where do you bring them?"
"I used to keep a place."
"You kept an apartment just for sex?"
He nods. His fingers skim my cheek. "I didn't want to invite anyone into my home."
"But you invited me?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I want you here."
I clear my throat, willing my thoughts to stay planted in the lust section of my brain. "Do you have a toothbrush? I want to kiss you but I'm afraid of the garlic in the shrimp scampi."
His hand on my lower back, he leads me to a marble sink. There's an extra toothbrush, still in its package, on the counter. It's purple.
Get a grip, girl. It's a toothbrush, not a declaration of undying love.
Nick watches as I pull off the packaging.
I hand him the paper so as not to further mess up his perfect bathroom.
He tosses it into some equally clean, modern trashcan then his attention is back on me.
"Don't watch me. It's weird." I squeeze toothpaste.
"We just had sex."
"Brushing your teeth is a lot more intimate than sex." I motion for him to turn around.
He doesn't. Instead, he pulls out his toothbrush.
I stare at him, waiting for him to avert his gaze.
It's not going to happen.
Fine. I focus on the mirror as I brush my teeth. After a few moments, my attention shifts to his reflection. I've never watched a man brush his teeth before. It's so domestic.
For a split second, I imagine a life with someone—getting ready for bed, brushing our teeth, falling asleep in each other's arms.
The someone shifts into focus. He's tall with black hair and deep brown eyes. He's unmistakably Nick.
I'm uneasy when I'm finished. I force the feeling away by rising to my tiptoes to kiss Nick. His tongue is aggressive, like he's been waiting as desperately as I have.
We stand there for minutes, his hands on my lower back, mine around his neck, making out like desperate teenagers.
When the kiss breaks, he leads me into the shower. There are buttons on the wall. One heats the floor. Another turns on the water. Yet another turns on the water—there are three faucets in here.
Of all the things to spend money on, why would anyone pick a shower?
Nick brings his body behind mine. The skin-to-skin contact makes me sizzle. His body feels damn good against mine.
He drags his fingertips between my breasts, all the way to my belly button.
"I'm not going to stop you from going again, but if you do, I'll need a note to my boss about why I'm coming in to work late." I place my hand under the nearest showerhead. The water is tolerably hot.
"You should take the day off. See a doctor for your back."
"It feels okay now. Something melted away the tension." I step under the shower to wet my hair. It occurs to me that my makeup isn't waterproof.
Fuck it. I throw my head back and rub my face.
Nick runs his thumb against the top of my cheeks like he's wiping off my liner. It's strangely intimate.
He reaches for the shower caddy in the corner and pumps shampoo into his hands. "Turn around."
I do.
He runs his hands through my hair, dispensing the shampoo. His touch is soft and delicate. I can't believe I mocked Kat for liking this. It's amazing.
A groan escapes my lips as he massages my scalp. Water runs over my front. I'm too hot to think anything but yes.
When he's done, Nick turns me and tilts me under the water. His hand slides around the back of my neck, supporting my head as he rinses my hair.
He does the same with conditioner. I'm so hot I want to scream.
His eyes are wide, his expression attentive.
Nick leans close enough to whisper. "The other shower head is detachable."
The thought makes me groan.
"Next time." He rubs me down with soap and rinses me.
Once I'm deemed clean, I shampoo and condition his hair.
He's so tall that I can't reach him on my tiptoes. He brings his chin to his chest so I can run my hands through his messy brown hair. I'm of no help with rinsing off his hair, but I certainly enjoy watching the muscles of his chest contract and relax as he throws his neck back. We do the same with conditioner, then I take my sweet, sweet time soaping him down.
It's my first chance to really explore his body. I run my fingers over the lines of his back and around the contours of his chest. His ass and thighs are just as muscular and they feel just as good against my hands.
He groans as I drag my hand up his thigh, but I don't stray past his quads. Not tonight. But soon.
It's like I can feel it in my bones.
I trust Nick to give me what I want.
But at 3 AM, I'm not about to contemplate just how much I trust him. Or just how much I want him.
Chapter Nineteen
There's a purple pajama set in Nick's dresser drawer. It's new, still in the tags, a cozy flannel blend that prioritizes comfort over sex appeal.
It's mine.
I towel dry and change into my new outfit. It's strange that he keeps buying me clothing. I'm tempted to refuse—I'm not a doll, and I don't need gifts—but there's something so Nick about all his selections. Classic, beautiful, understated.
He pulls on boxers and pajama pants. "Come on. I'll make you something to eat."
My stomach rumbles. I ran out well before I finished dinner. I nod. "You cook?"
"Yes."
He presses his palm into my lower back to lead me to the kitchen.
I lean against the counter and watch him scour the fridge. It's mostly empty. I don't imagine Nick gets many chances to cook, working from 8 AM to 8 PM every day.
I'm exhausted and I've only been doing it for a few weeks. How does he keep that up constantly?
He's seamless in the kitchen, heating a pan as he chops and dices. The smell of fresh red peppers fills the room.
"Do you cook a lot?" I ask.
He slides a row of chopped vegetables into a sizzling skillet pan. "I cooked when my mom got sick, but I've never been motivated to cook for myself."
I pour myself a glass of water and attempt to sort out my thoughts. "Did you cook for Shepard?"
"Until he left for college." Nick focuses intently on the food.
I study his expression, what I can see with him turned away from me. His lips are curled down. His shoulders are slumped. He's upset.
I press my palm into my empty glass. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"When we sit down." He cracks half a dozen eggs into a shiny silver bo
wl. "Do you want something to drink?"
"If we're having eggs, this is breakfast. So coffee." My gaze goes to the coffee maker on the counter. The same as the one in my apartment. "I can do it."
"Thank you."
There's a defensive edge to his voice. I bite my lip, trying to focus on my coffee-making at the expense of everything else.
One drop at a time, the carafe fills. After a few minutes, the room smells like coffee. I fix two mugs and bring them to the thick wood table in the corner.
The sky is pitch black. The only light coming through the windows is from the apartment complex next door and the streetlights lining Battery Park.
I watch the smooth current of the river as Nick brings over two plates of scrambled eggs.
And sriracha.
