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“Aw, come on, honey. It’s probably the honeymoon suite.”
“Nightmare suite, maybe. Is that supposed to be romantic?”
He came up behind her. “Pretty sure that bed is made for fucking.”
She crossed her arms over her belly. “We’re supposed to be here for you to rest.”
“I sleep like a baby after fucking.”
She whacked his arm. “You couldn’t handle me, Waters. I don’t do Boy Scouts.”
“Christ, Den. Who says I’m a Boy Scout?”
“Please. You’ve practically got a badge sewn onto your zipper.” She swayed a little. Her tell. When she was nervous, she swayed side to side, almost as if she was comforting herself. “Where the hell am I going to sleep?”
He searched the room and found a fugly brown chair that he wouldn’t let a dog sit on. “On the bed with me. I can behave. Mostly.” He threaded his fingers through the ends of her ponytail. Her earthy honey scent wafted up from her hair. Fuck, it always smelled so good. How many times had he wanted to bury his face in that those thick dark strands?
How many times had they been crammed into his bunk and her shampoo dis
tracted him? How many times had he thought about sliding over that line to more than friends?
Too many, that was how many.
He moved in a little closer. “Unless you don’t want me to.” His voice was low, and just this side of broken.
Bad things could happen if he wasn’t careful. Especially with condoms burning a hole in his pocket. Oh, and the idea of her wanting things a little left of vanilla was officially going to kill him.
She shivered and stopped swaying, but didn’t pull away like he expected her to. His dick hardened painfully. Considering it had been halfway there already, it didn’t take much.
“I should take a shower,” he said.
“Yes, you should.” She stepped forward, hugging her crossed arms.
“Right.” A cold shower was definitely in order. He glanced at her one more time before closing himself into the bathroom. He winced when he saw his reflection.
As if she’d want to fuck him looking like a derelict on a two-month bender. Jesus.
He turned the taps on and set it to hot. A very thin towel was slung over an ancient towel bar, but it would do the job. He kicked off his boots and draped his jeans over the sink. They weren’t in too bad shape.
His shirt, however...
He flicked the curtain back and stepped inside with the shirt. The shower wasn’t too bad. Scrubbed to within an inch of the porcelain’s life, but it was clean. And it smelled of bleach.
Small victories.
He stepped under the punishing spray and dumped half the miniature bottle of shampoo on his hair and scrubbed out the dirt and grime, then used the other half for the rest of him. He tackled his shirt with the small bar of cheap soap, wrung it out, and flipped it over the shower bar. At least the shirt should be semi-dry by morning. He braced his hands on the tiles and let the rest of the hot water wash away some of the aches.
When the water started to cool, he turned off the taps. He wrapped the towel around his waist and peeked out, but no Denver. He crossed the room and found a notepad on the bed, along with her jacket. Her scrawl informed him she was on the roof.
He hurried into the bathroom and pulled his jeans over his damp legs. The small box of condoms dropped to the battered tile. Crossbones and a leering skeleton grinned back up at him.
The box was practically winking up at him, for fuck’s sake. “Don’t give me that look,” he muttered, and shoved the box back into his pocket. He was just asking for trouble even contemplating their use.
Just move the fuck on, son.
He jammed his feet into his boots and clomped out the door, slamming it behind him. He swiped his wet hair off his forehead as the thick heat of the night slapped him in the face.
July in New York should be illegal. It was swampy and heavy, where California was dry and arid. One of the reasons he loved LA so much. The nights were made for sleeping with windows open and no sheets.
