When the doors open, we step out and I lead the way down the hallway. As soon as I open the door to the room, it’s clear I was right about the lack of a penthouse. The room can only be called cozy, with a large king-sized bedtaking up most of the space. There’s a dresser with a small TV resting on top, and a single armchair next to what looks to be an old-fashioned wood-burning stove. The stove seems to be purely ornamental as there is no heat stemming from it and no wood anywhere to be found. There is, however, a whole lot of plaid. On just about every available surface.
Jess immediately veers toward the bathroom and comes out with something close to a smile on her face. “There’s a tub.”
Bathtubs used to be her one hotel requirement when we went on vacation, since neither of our Brooklyn apartments were big enough for one. I imagine she’ll linger in there for hours. The thought stokes a memory, of Jess naked and slick with water, straddling me in the tub, rocking over me gently, driving me to the edge and back so many times I finally hoisted her out of the water and bent her over the bathroom counter, stroking into her until we both screamed.
Jess tosses her bag into the armchair and it lands with a thud, forcing my mind to stop the replay just in time. My dick is half-hard, and I hastily move my hand to cover it. Luckily, she seems to be looking everywhere but at me.
I clear my throat. “If it’s okay with you, I’ll take a quick shower before you get in the bath. That way you can take as long as you want.” At least if she spends an hour in the bath, it’s one more hour we don’t have to try to force conversation.
She nods, unzipping her bag and rifling through, apparently looking for nothing since she comes up empty-handed. “Sounds good.”
I open my own bag, pulling out a pair of pajama pants, a plain white tee, and a clean pair of boxers before putting some much-needed separation between us in the form of the bathroom door.
Stripping out of my suit in the privacy of the bathroom feels like the best kind of relief. I hate dressing up, and everything about this evening has made the suit feel suffocating. The water pressure in the shower is surprisingly strong and I let it wash over me, easing the tension in my muscles. I feel like I’ve been clenched tight ever since stepping foot into the party, but the steam and the heat help ease the strain.
For a half second I consider jacking off, just to get it out of my system before my brain can play any further tricks on me. Before I have to consider sharing that bed with her. But something about it feels wrong, so despite the peace I find under the water stream, I step out of the shower after just a few minutes. I dress quickly, then open the door to the bathroom, letting out a cloud of steam.
“All yours.” I hang up my suit in the closet so I don’t have to watch her slip into the bathroom and shut the door between us.
Pulling my book from my bag, I turn down the sheets of the bed and make myself comfortable on the right-hand side. Jess always preferred the left, and even after all these years, I still gravitate toward “my” side of the bed. Normally, I don’t listen to music while I read, but I don’t want to overhear a smidge of what’s happening on the other side of this wall, so I slip in some earbuds and push Play on my relax playlist.
I’d like to say I let myself escape into the book, allthoughts of Jess and bathtubs free from my brain, but that, of course, would be a lie. Not even the greatest book ever written could keep me from thinking about her, imagining her hands running over her bare skin, soapy bubbles dotting the swell of her breasts, the strong lines of her calves.
I knew I should have jerked off.
I slam my eyes closed, as if that can somehow turn off my brain. Jesus Christ. I need to get it together. The last thing I want to do is make her uncomfortable, and if tonight has shown me nothing else so far, it’s that Jess has zero interest in even talking to me, let alone reconciling in any way, shape, or form.
I’ve firmly resolved I will not think of her as anything but a colleague when the door to the bathroom opens.
More steam spills into the room, but it’s not enough to cloud over what else emerges.
Jessica. Wearing nothing but a towel.
She looks at me sheepishly. “I didn’t bring anything to sleep in.”
She always did prefer to sleep naked, a fact that I’m remembering way too fucking late in the game.
I direct my eyes toward the ceiling so I don’t ogle her. Reaching for the hem of the white T-shirt I’m wearing, I tug it over my head and toss it her way. When I don’t hear the bathroom door close again and she doesn’t say anything, I peek over at her.
Her eyes are glued to my torso. Actually, they’re not glued, they’re roving, skirting over my pecs and tracing down my abs.
I flex a little.
Her eyes finally meet mine and she realizes I’ve beenwatching her watching me. I grin and her cheeks color, as red as the holly berries in the wreath hanging on the door.
She scampers back into the bathroom and I swear I hear the towel drop to the floor. I let out a silent groan, scrubbing my hand over my face.
Somehow, when she emerges once again, it’s worse than before. My T-shirt barely covers the round curve of her ass. When she bends over to put her discarded clothes in her bag, I catch a tantalizing peek of skin, her underwear cut high enough to expose the bottoms of her cheeks.
From the slow way she returns to standing, I know this is my payback for flexing.
But if this is how she wants to get even, she can ogle me all she wants.
It’s a familiar game, one we used to play often. Of course, back then it would end with the two of us wrapped in each other, naked and sated. Something tells me neither of us will be finding that kind of relief tonight.
She spins around, and the loose neck of the shirt—my shirt—slips from her shoulder, revealing a whole lot of collarbone. The thin white fabric does nothing to disguise the pebbled tips of her nipples.
I clench my hands into fists.
