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“I promise, me and my unfortunate reek will be out of your hair first thing. Thank you,” he said.
Cadence closed her bedroom door with a goodnight and before either of them could move she opened it again and peeped out. “And keep it down. I’m a light sleeper.”
Zeke pointed to himself and said, “Church,” and to Rory and said, “Mouse.” And for a second Cadence believed him, but they heard her grumbling from behind her closed door and they both stifled laughs.
“Tell me you have a tub,” Zeke said.
It was a rainwater-fed shower and they had a full tank.
While he was in the bathroom, Rory made up a bed for herself with a spare quilt on the hard couch. She was contemplating for the millionth time how badly she missed her phone and her e-reader, when Zeke reappeared with a towel looped around his hips.
He cleaned up real good. He’d shaved, and his hair was wet and slicked back and without the grime he seemed monstrous with health. “Feel better?”
“Hell of a lot. But I don’t have anything clean to wear.” He looked down at himself. “Do you mind the skirt for tonight? I don’t know what they did with my bag.”
That story would wait. The toweling skirt was surprisingly masculine on him. He might have found the construction work a strain, but his body was built for it, the rise and curl of muscles perfectly proportioned on his chest and arms, through to the ripples of his abs and the hard cuts of his Adonis belt.
He’d had lustful eyes on him in the dining hall when he was filthy. Cleaned up and semi-naked, he was devastating. “Bedroom,” she pointed to the open door and then got off the couch and led the way.
He stopped in the doorway and visibly sagged. “A single. We’ll make it work.”
Oh no. Not a chance. “I’m not getting into bed with you.”
He braced a hand on the doorjamb, popping his bicep into relief. “Why not?”
How could he sound offended? “It’s too small and you’re too big.” Also, intensely naked. “I have the couch.”
He groaned. “I can’t put you out of your own bed.”
“Don’t make a habit of it.” She went to move past him, but he took up all the space and he didn’t move aside.
“Stay with me. We can talk till I pass out.”
“Nope.” They stood so close she could feel the heat coming off him, followed a drop of water as it traveled from his hairline, down his cheek, and neck, where it pooled briefly in the hollow of his throat before starting a journey down his chest. She could lick that drop up, run her tongue over the swell of his pec, along his collar bone, all the way up his neck to his jaw.
Holy fuck, what was that about?
He pulled the door closed and lowered his voice. “Rory?”
She reached out and poked him in the sternum, collecting the drop and putting it in her mouth. “We’re not doing it.”
He caught her hand in his. “Not doing what?”
She shook her head. She’d gone into a trance, overwhelmed with the wet warmth of him in the small room; the comfort of him after a week of stress and the unfamiliarity of wanting to put her mouth on his skin and taste the reality of him. She let her hand drift to an angry red graze on his shoulder. “What happened?”
“Nothing. Scraped it. Tore a shirt. Are you okay?”
She took a step back from him and sat on the bed. “I’m fine. I had an interesting week.”
He sat beside her, being careful with his skirt and showing a lot of thickly muscled thigh. “What’s this?” He laid a hand on her forearm, the fingerprint bruises left over from her manhandling. His touch didn’t help her stop feeling light-headed.
“Also nothing. I’ll tell you in the morning.”
“Tell me now.”
She took the hand he had bandaged, turned it upright in her palm. “Tell me about this first.”
“Ditchdigging. My city-slicker softness getting a workout.”
