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“Not a waste. I didn’t want to share.”
I pulled my gaze from the window to look at him. “You don’t mind sharing with me?”
An odd expression crossed his face. “It feels different with you.”
Good. I didn’t care that I wasn’t his first, but dammit, I still wanted to be special.
“Clothes off, Red.” He grasped the hem of my shirt and pulled it off over my head. My eyes widened. He made quick work of my jeans and underwear, not letting his gaze linger anywhere for too long. “In you go.”
I wrapped my hair into a topknot so it wouldn’t get wet and sank into the hot water with a sigh of pleasure. I closed my eyes and leaned back. The cold porcelain was a welcome contrast to the hot water.
A moment later I felt him nudge my shoulder. “Scootch. I’m coming in.”
Luke was naked? I nearly sprained my neck from turning it so fast, trying to get a look at him. Alas, he was too close and too quick, easing into the water behind me with his legs on either side of me.
I made a sound of disappointment that made him chuckle. “I wanted to see.”
“I know, honey. Don’t worry, you’ll see plenty later. For now, just relax.”
How the hell was I supposed to relax with naked Luke all around me? Honestly. But then he worked the bar of soap into a lather, scrubbing and kneading the taunt muscles of my back and shoulders, and, impossibly, I felt my tension melt away.
“I love this,” he murmured as his soapy hands stroked down my arms. “Your freckles. Like you were doused in gold dust.”
I had spent years resenting my freckles. Years being told by directors to cover them with powder and makeup before a ballet so the audience wouldn’t think I lookeddirtyunder the harsh theater lights. And now Luke was telling me he loved my freckles? It made me love them too, each and every one of them, for the first time in my life.
He soaped my breasts, scraping his thumbs across my nipples until they peaked. I moaned softly and tipped my head back to rest against the hard muscles of his chest. He hummed his approval as his hands moved down my belly and to my thighs. The water sloshed gently, rhythmically.
His hands felt so good against my skin, but now I knew exactly how good those hands could make me feel and I wanted that. Now. I shifted, canting my hips, my body asking him for more.
His lips curved against my neck. “Filthy girl,” he murmured. “Do you want me to clean your pussy?”
His words made my skin erupt in goosebumps despite the heat of the water. “Yes, please.”
His hands dipped between my thighs. I let my knees fall open, giving him space. His fingers slipped between my folds, stroking lightly over my clit, but not giving me the pressure I craved. I whimpered.
“Not yet, Red. Pace yourself.”
After washing himself, he helped me out of the tub and wrapped us both in large, fluffy towels. He scooped me into his arms and carried me to the bedroom like I was his bride—and that, I swore to myself, would be the last ridiculous, virginal I would allow in my brain. Luke didn’t want to marry me. I sure as hell didn’t want to marry anyone yet.
“Is this…is this going to hurt?” I blurted out as he laid me down.
He paused. “Maybe? For some women, it hurts, for others it doesn’t. Some women bleed and some don’t.”
His hand went to his waist, where he had tucked the towel to keep himself covered. And since this was my first time getting a full look at naked Luke, I propped myself up on my elbows to watch the show. He dropped the towel.
Oh, shit.
He was a work of art. Michelangelo’s David would have felt bad about himself if he’d had to stand next to Luke Buchanan. He was beautiful and perfect and…
And also? He was huge.
I had felt him against my back before. Against my belly. I had seen the outline of him in his boxers. But somehow I had not comprehended just how big he truly was until now, when that torpedo between his legs was fully armed and aimed straight for me.
I licked my lips nervously. “Be honest. Has this ever just…not worked?”
His brow furrowed. “Not worked?”
“Like, not fit.”
