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“Thank you.”
He leaves and closes the door behind him, and I strip out of his T-shirt and my panties before stepping into the shower that’s big enough for most of the offensive line on the football team and sighing in appreciation.
Yeah, that feels damn good.
I just stand here and let the water stream over my head and down my body, then take a long, deep breath. If I’m going to be mortified, at least I’ll feel clean and more in my right mind when I’m sent on my way.
I hear the door open, feet shuffling, and then the door closes again, and I decide I best get busy cleaning myself up.
I use his shampoo and smile. It smells like him, which, of course, makes sense. I’m surprised to find that he has some nice face cleanser, so I use that, as well, and after a while, I’m feeling human again. Clean. Fresh.
And ready to face the music.
So, I dry myself off and dress in the clean T-shirt he left for me, but I avoid his boxers and sweats. Instead, I decide to forgo the dirty underwear and just slip on my jeans.
I can change into normal clothes when I get home.
“Thanks for the loaner,” I say when I find Ike in the kitchen, sipping a cup of coffee. He looks over, narrows his eyes, and they travel down the length of me. “I’ll be sure to wash it and get it back to you.”
“No rush,” he replies. “Were the sweats way too big?”
“Probably, but I just put these on. They’ll be fine until I get back home and change.”
“So, let me ask you a question.” He walks around the island, sets his mug aside, and cups my face and part of my neck in his big hand. “Why are you in such a hurry to leave?”
My mouth opens, but then I immediately close it again, trying to gather my thoughts.
“Are you embarrassed?”
“Of course, I’m embarrassed!” That came out quicker and way harsher than I intended, but I can’t help it. I step away from him and pace his kitchen. “I called you last night, completely wasted, and practically threw myself at you. I’m no better than the groupies who follow the team around.”
His jaw tightens, but I keep going.
“And I promised you all this great sex, but I was so sick from drinking too much that I passed out on you, and you had no choice but to pour me into your own bed and practically babysit me. It’s not sexy, it’s mortifying, and it would probably be best if I just got my stuff, what little of it there is, and left. We can just forget it ever happened.”
“So, are you always completely in control, so that when you lose the slightest bit of that control, you react this way?”
I tilt my head, watching him. “Are you a therapist?”
“No, I’m genuinely curious. Because you didn’t do anything wrong. We haven’t known each other long, but we’re definitely attracted to each other. Your call was fun and cute, and I thought you were a funny drunk. Not a jerk. Not promiscuous. Too much champagne makes me sick, too, so I don’t drink it. And if I didn’t want you in my bed, I would have just taken you home last night. So, I’m going to ask you what I did earlier. Do I seem mad?”
“There were a couple of moments when your voice got hard. And that’s new, so I thought maybe you were trying to keep your temper in check or something. Even though it was kind of hot.”
His eyebrow wings up in surprise after the last sentence.
“My voice gets hard when I’m fucking turned on, Soph.”
I swallow hard. “Oh. So, are you bossy in bed?”
“Yeah. I am.”
I nod slowly, absorbing this news.
“I’m sorry if you thought I was mad.”
“I don’t know what I thought.” I shrug one shoulder, and then he advances toward me, picks me up, and takes me into the living room, settling on the couch with me in his lap. “Sick of the kitchen?”
His lips twitch into a smile. “That was just awkward, and this is more comfortable. We’ve established that no one is angry, so there’s no need to be embarrassed, and I’m completely taken with you.”
I loop my arms around his neck and settle in, feeling way more at ease.
“You forgot one part.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m obsessed with you, too.”
He brushes the backs of his fingers down my cheek. “Well, that’s handy. Because if you were revolted, we’d have to end things. That’s the only right thing to do.”
“You’ve got a point. Am I too heavy for you?”
“I outweigh you by a good eighty pounds, sweetheart. I’m fine.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m not heavy.”
“Are you always argumentative when you’re hungover?”
I laugh now and lean my forehead against his. “I don’t know. It doesn’t happen often.”
