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In no time, I’m up and joining him in the sardine-like quarters.
“It’s tiny in here,” he says, then wiggles his brow. “But plenty of room to jack off.”
I groan and laugh at the same time. “The true measure of a shower.”
“Am I right or am I right?” he asks, then tips his hair back under the stream. I grab the soap from the dish as he lets the water run over him.
As I wash, I don’t look away from the wet man inches from me.
Hot streams of water slide down his firm pecs, through the rivulets around his abs, down his legs.
But it’s the soft expression on his face that I enjoy most. As he revels in the hot water, it’s like he’s reveling, too, in the afterglow of great sex.
Hell, I can still feel my bones buzzing.
When he lifts his face and opens his eyes again, he sighs contentedly and meets my gaze for a quick second with that same vulnerable look. Like he’s saying that was good for me, was it good for you?
I try to answer without words, hoping my mouth and eyes all say so damn good.
But before I stare dopily at him for too long, I blink off the fuzzy feelings, then grab the bottle of shampoo and hand it to him. He takes it with a grunted thanks, turning around to lather his hair.
As he pours it, nerves fly through me, and I don’t even know why. He’s not going to ask me to wash his hair, is he? That’s even more intimate than sex, though my fingers itch to touch him like that. I’m eager to run my hands up his smooth, strong back and into his hair.
Those nerves? They’re because I wanted him to ask me to wash his hair.
But he doesn’t. He lathers up solo, and that’s fine too. I finish cleaning up as he wheels around to rinse the suds from his hair. When he’s done, he wordlessly asks for the soap, holding out his hand.
I give it to him, then move to step around him. This is such standard post-sex choreography, but it’s like I’m learning the moves all over again with him.
And I don’t want to misstep.
When I’m done, I suppose I should give him his space. I don’t need to be here anymore in this very functional shower.
But I want to stay, so I reach for the shampoo, ready to ask him to let me under the spray. But Luke stops me, setting a hand on my chest, meeting my eyes. “Don’t wash your hair.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m a junkie,” he deadpans.
My soul smiles. He doesn’t want me to leave, and I don’t want to either.
“For my hair?” I ask though I think I know the answer. I just want to hear about this new addiction of his—my hair. Me.
With a self-deprecating snort, he says, “For that ballpark shampoo you used tonight.”
“Yeah?” This makes me unreasonably happy.
His hands slide down my chest. “Turned me on. A lot.”
“Good thing I don’t need to wash my hair then.”
“Very good,” he says, lifting his nose, like he’s sniffing me. “And that aftershave you usually wear. That turns me on too,” he adds, with a cocky shrug, like he’s proud of his desire.
I will never not wear that aftershave again.
Luke turns his back to me, returning to the task of running the soap over his body as he leaves me with that sexy mic drop—the admission that I get him going.
Sure, we just fucked. Sure, it was insane. But hearing that he’s been affected by me makes me want to…well, to touch him in the shower.
I lean into that impulse, pressing a gentle kiss to his neck.
He gasps lightly, then murmurs. It’s a nice sound. One I like far too much. I want to wrap my arms around his waist and lavish kisses all over the back of his neck. Want to drown him in touches.
Which means I really should go.
I exit the shower, grabbing a towel and drying off as he finishes. By the time the shower stops, I’m in his bedroom, dressed in my Rafe Rodman boxer briefs and jeans.
I hunt around for my shirt and find it on the floor. I pull it on while footsteps pad across the floor.
When I poke my head through the neck of my shirt, he’s studying me, like I’m a math problem he can’t solve.
“You leaving?” he asks.
It comes out tough. A little abrasive. His green eyes are harder, too, than I’m used to.
I weigh the facts. It’s past midnight. This is just sex. Luke doesn’t want more than sex. I don’t want to overstay. “I was going to,” I say carefully.
Luke glances down at the towel around his waist, then strides past me, heading for the bureau. “Cool.”
After he yanks open the drawer, he snags a pair of basketball shorts and pulls them on.
