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The teenage fuckup? The kid who put so much strain on his mother that she almost had a nervous breakdown when he got locked up? The man who worked for a company that preyed on the little guy?
Some days it felt like there weren’t enough good deeds in the world for him to atone for what he’d done.
“I...that night at Christmas...”
Don’t say it.
Please say it.
No...don’t say it.
“I think about it a lot,” she finished. Her unsaid words lingered in the air, riding the steam up and away. “What might have been.”
He drew her hair back so he could work some shampoo into the ruby lengths. She hummed her pleasure as he massaged her head. “The road to hell is paved in what-ifs.”
“Yes, it is,” she whispered.
This is a very bad idea. Repeat: this is a very fucking bad idea.
They switched places so she could finish her hair, and he was more than happy to watch. She didn’t seem shy and he loved that—confidence was something he found supremely sexy, and it took all his willpower to let her finish cleaning. But when she was done, she looked him in the eye.
“So that’s it?” she said. “Just a shower and nothing more.”
He backed August against the tiles, leaning one forearm against the wall next to her head. His body lined hers, the warm softness of her breasts and belly and thighs pressing against him, and stirring him below the belt.
“I’m not done with you yet,” he said.
“Good.”
It felt like they were playing a game of chicken. To see who would whip out a white flag and beg for mercy. So far, neither side showed signs of admitting defeat.
“You’re so beautiful.” He lowered his head to hers. “So stubborn and beautiful.”
Her head rolled back against the tiles and she chuckled. “You told me once you didn’t like people who let go of things too easily. Is that why you’re attracted to me?”
“What are you not letting go of?” he asked.
“You.”
Her lashes were dewy, her eyes wide and luminous. She knew exactly how badly her answer would slay him. How it would cut him down the middle and stick him in the part he tried so damn hard to hide. He’d made it easy, too. He’d walked right into it.
Tell her she doesn’t have you and she never will.
But the words wouldn’t form. Because knowing August wanted him—all of him—was like slathering balm on some roughed-up, chewed-up, scratched-up part of him. It softened his edges, like water neutralizing the fire of anger and resentment that normally fueled him.
He lowered his head toward her and kissed her. She met him, hungry and willing, and the feel of her was so achingly familiar. Not because he’d been with her enough to know her every taste and scent.
But because he knew this feeling. This completeness. He’d experienced it before.
The rightness of it made him want to crumble. But there was no way he could let on that this was anything more than sex. That it was anything more than primal need and pent-up lust and the consequences of too much work and not enough play.
Thiswas what he needed to focus on. The here and now. The pleasure.
Keaton wrapped his fingers around her wrists and pressed her arms back to the tiled shower wall, holding her still. The muscles in her wrists flexed under his hard grip, as if testing him. As if reminding him that she couldn’t be controlled.
“Do your worst,” she whispered. “I can take it.”
“I know you can. You’re stronger than I am.”
