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My shoulder blades hit the cool glass of the window above the sink before the back of my head does. His gaze moves over the red skin between my breasts and the top of my abs as he grabs the stretchy attachment from the tap and opens the faucet. “Ready?”
I nod jerkily, every single muscle in my body tensed in preparation. Cool water rivers over my chest, between my breasts, over my stomach, soaking my jersey shorts. It’s running down my thighs and onto the drip tray of the sink I’m sitting on, leaving a trail of goose pimples in its wake. I don’t care. The relief is instant. My eyes close on a groan. Seconds pass, maybe minutes. I keep them closed and focus on the coolness and not the man hovering over me—not his clean beachy scent, or the warmth of his big body.
His hand on my hip twitches, thumb pressing into the dip of skin beside it.
“I don’t think it’ll blister.”
My brain sluggishly creeps out of its daze at the rough gravel of his voice, and my eyelids peel open.
Brow low, pelvis leaning against the worktop between my thighs, he’s one hundred percent focused on the gentle spray of water over my body. He doesn’t look up. I force myself to look down. Brace myself for blisters despite his assurance that there aren’t any.
Nothing but wet pink skin and a pair of completely transparent triangles of cotton covering exactly nothing.
I’m like the winning contestant of a one-woman wet T-shirt competition.
My cheeks burn. The absurdity of it all crashing over me now that the pain has eased. I push myself up. His hand drops to my thigh, the other still holding the faucet, still aiming a stream of cold water over my torso.
“How did you get in?”
“Your door was unlocked.” He reaches over to shut off the water, then steps back from the counter. From me.
“It wasn’t unlocked. It must be jamming again.” I grip the edge of the worktop and gingerly straighten. “I thought I’d fixed it.”
“What the hell happened?” He surveys the disaster that is my kitchen, scratching his jaw. “It looks like a bomb went off in here. Sounded like it too.”
“Hot chocolate gone wrong.” I laugh slightly hysterically. I can’t help it. He’s in my kitchen. At three in the morning, saving me from my goddamn self. I slither off the counter, careful not to jostle my tender skin or what’s left of my pride. I go to fold my arms. Then stop. Not happening. The skin’s tight without the water, pulsing and tender.
“Can’t say I’ve ever seen one made with quite so much drama.” His chuckle is rich and smoky with an ease I don’t think I’ve heard from him since right back when we first met, like the surrealness of the situation has somehow removed that stick from his ass.
He’s soaked too. Shirtless. Shoeless. Hair pulled back in a top knot that’s definitely seen better days, wet shorts—seriously clinging wet shorts. He’s… well, he’s just massive all over.
He plucks at the material and glances up as if he can read the grudgingly impressed tangent my thoughts have taken.
I force my eyes up to the ceiling, the only place not spattered with milk and kitchen utensils and wet man. “If there’s drama to be found, believe me, I’ll find it.”
“I believe it.” The warmth of his presence on my already hot skin drags my gaze down from the safety of the ceiling.
He’s staring at my chest again, brow furrowed, seemingly unbothered by the water dripping down his torso. Drops run down his abs, slipping over each ridge before dissolving into the waistband of his shorts.
“I’ve got ointment.”
“Huh?” I look up.
He’s still staring, but now at my face, a slight lift at the corner of his lips. “Burn ointment? I’ve got some in my place. I’ll be right back.”
And then he’s gone, leaving me staring, bewildered, at the empty kitchen doorway.
He’s coming back. I blink. Glance down to my soggy, see-through bra, my dripping shorts. My soaking socks.
I’m out of my shorts the second I get to my bedroom, unfastening the back clasp of my bra and carefully sliding the material away from my body, letting it drop to the floor. The dip between my boobs is raw and pink, heating up again without the coolness of the water. I touch my fingers to the skin. There’s definite whining. It might not be blistered, but it still stings like a bitch.
I puff out my cheeks. Pull it together. He’ll be right back. I grab the first pair of pajama shorts I come to in the bottom drawer of my wardrobe and my dressing gown from a hanger. I barely get them on before my front door bangs closed. The shorts are green and blue stripes, the dressing gown red silk with Japanese cherry blossoms. I’m a mess. This whole situation is a mess.
“Kenzi?”
“Coming.” I close my eyes, curse the universe, then head through to the living room.
He’s changed too. Loose black sweats and nothing else. Standing in the middle of the room, all huge and concerned, he lifts a small jar of clear jelly. “Ointment.”
