Page 41 of Born in Fire
“Turn around,” I say, reaching for her lavender body wash.
She complies, eyes still closed, completely vulnerable. I work the soap across her shoulders, down her arms, careful to keep my touch gentle. Professional, almost. This isn’t about getting her back in bed. It’s about showing her she’s safe with me.
“I could get used to this,” she whispers.
Something cracks open in my chest. “Yeah. Me too.”
Her eyes open, and she gazes up at me silently, something passing between us that I don’t quite understand.
She blinks, and the moment is gone, but I can’t help but feel that something important has shifted.
“Okay, I think I’m clean enough. How about I wash you?” she asks archly.
I glance down at where my cock twitches at the thought of it.
“Probably not a good idea if you’re planning to get to work this week.”
“Thisweek?” She grins impishly, trailing a fingertip down my chest to my abdomen, stopping an inch below my navel. “You’re probably right,” she says just as a low growl builds in the base of my throat. The growl turns into a groan as she turns away and reaches for a towel, wrapping it around her sweet curves.
We dry off and get dressed, me in yesterday’s clothes and her in dark pants and a blue shirt. I watch as she buttons it up over the swell of her breasts, enjoying the way the fabric pulls over the lush mounds.
“You’re fucking gorgeous, you know that?” I stroke a fingertip along her cheekbone. Her hair is still damp, and a water drop trickles onto her neck.
“I think that’s an exaggeration.” She rolls her eyes at me. “But I’ll take it.”
“I’m serious,” I tell her, and as I say it, I know that I really am. I want to etch her features into my brain and call them up when I’m having a bad day.
“And I’m hungry,” she says, lifting onto her toes to dot a kiss on my lips before heading to the kitchenette. I follow her like an oversized puppy, committing her graceful movements to memory.
She opens a cabinet and takes out mugs while I start making us coffee. I stop abruptly as something small hurtles past me and lands on the counter as I duck from it. I turn and frown at her.
“Did you just throw a biscotti at me?” I wave it at her.
“You’re doing it wrong,” Juno laughs, taking the French press from my hands. “You’re going to break it.”
“It’s coffee. How complicated can it be?”
She rolls her eyes. “Says the man who probably has an assistant fetch his coffee.”
“For your information, I make excellent coffee.” I lean against her counter, watching her precise movements. She’s hummingas she works: “Crazy” by Patsy Cline. Seems appropriate. “I just don’t use contraptions that require an engineering degree.”
“Anengineeringdegree? It’s a freaking plunger, rich boy.” She pours the steaming liquid into the mismatched mugs. “How do you make your coffee, then?”
“I have one of those coffee pod things. I press a button, andvoila.” I shrug.
“Very evolved.” She grins and then hands me a mug.
“You should get one,” I say. “Or one of those percolator things.”
“Nah,” she says. “It probably sounds nuts, but I don’t like stale coffee filters. The way the grounds stain the white paper. It’s just… ick.”
“You’re weird, you know that?” I grin at her. “Who doesn’t like coffee filters?”
“Not filters specifically. More like the texture of the paper. And the color. Like white sheets creep me out, too.”
“You don’t like white sheets?” It occurs to me that hers are blue.
“Nope. They make me think of hospitals.” She shrugs like it’s no big deal, but somehow, I think it is.
