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He's just coming in for a shower, Carly, I tell myself. This isn't an agreement for anything.
But somehow, I just know I'm lying to myself. I have this sneaking suspicion that nothing's going to be the same if Kassam comes into my apartment, and I have an even bigger suspicion that I don't care.
Kassam makes a curious noise as the elevator dings for my floor. I look over at him curiously. "The walls are…thin here," he says. "Now I understand."
"Walls?" I echo.
"Between our worlds."
I blink, waiting for that to make sense. It doesn't. "Um…are you on mushrooms?"
He chuckles, the sound rolling through my body like honey. "No, my light, I am not on anything." The look he gives me is pure sensuality, and my toes curl.
"That's good," I manage. "I was wondering because of the blood." I fumble with my keys as I head for my door. "I guess it's not yours?"
"No, it is mine."
I turn, a wordless noise escaping my throat. I scan him, but under all that red gunk, he looks…good? Damn good. I don't see anything that would be causing so much damn blood, either. "Are you wounded?"
He shrugs. "Not anymore." His gaze scans over me, making my skin prickle with awareness. "I find that now that I am free, everything is restored. Good, and bad."
"Free?" I echo as I push the door open. "What do you mean?" My voice sounds all fluttery. Am I really doing this? Am I dragging a stranger? A blood-covered stranger? Into my apartment? This is serial killer territory and yet all I can think about is how utterly turned on I am in this moment. Like I can't think of anything except Kassam and his fascinating eyes. Kassam and his bulging muscles. Kassam and his wicked smile.
Kassam touching my hand and my body spontaneously orgasming. I mean, how does that work anyhow?
I gesture at my apartment as he follows me in. "Home sweet home. The bathroom is the door on the left." My place isn't much. It's little bigger than a studio, with a futon bed-slash-couch propped up against the wall, two windows looking out on the city, and my TV. There's my bathroom, my minuscule kitchen with my tiny, dying herb plant on the counter, and in the next room over is my tiny shoebox bedroom. I cringe at my college-student decor, because I'm not exactly big on decorating or home improvement. I get too distracted for things like picking out rugs or paintings. I'd much rather curl up with a book or take a walk in the park than shop. It reflects in my clothing, too. I'm very much a jeans and T-shirt kind of girl. Looking at Kassam, though, I wish I was a little more sophisticated. I wish I had a bottle of wine and some hors d'oeuvres that I could offer my guest…after he showers, of course.
Because I suspect this is going where I think it's going to go, and I am ten thousand percent okay with that.
Kassam is watching me with fascination instead of heading toward the bathroom to clean up, and my cheeks get hot. I brush past him and move toward the bathroom, opening the door and gesturing that he should go inside. "Need me to show you how to work the shower?"
"Yes."
I should be surprised but I'm not. Actually, there should be a lot of things ringing alarm bells in my head right now, but I just feel kind of pleasant and happy. There's a blissful fog settled over my brain, and it feels as if nothing matters other than enjoying myself. So I'm going to. I smile at Kassam as I slide past him, turn on the water, and test my hand under it. "Warm, cool, or hot?"
"Hot. Very hot." He smiles at me. "I'm tired of the cold."
I can appreciate that. I turn the water temperature up as high as it'll go, hand him my bathing pouf, and gesture at the door, since we're both crowded inside. "I'll be in the living area—"
"You do not want to wash me?"
My mouth goes dry. I stare at his filthy, broad chest. "I shouldn't."
"Shouldn't you?"
"I shouldn't be doing any of this," I protest, even as I step forward and indicate he should get into the shower. "I think you're fogging my mind."
"You're probably right." Kassam sighs. "I will make everything good for you, so you have no regrets at least."
Well that sounds…ominous and sexy both. He climbs into the tub, moving to stand under the spray, and doesn't even bother to take his pants off. Oh. I notice that the water is filthy as it pools around his feet…bare feet. How did I not notice that before? "Where are the rest of your clothes?" I ask him, even as I add soap to my pouf and lather it up. I'm going to wash this man, despite the fact that I'm tired from a full day of work, and he's a stranger covered in blood.
