He grinned. “Gimme a sec, sweetheart, and I’ll try your damn brains out.”
Thirteen
Aidan pushed the shower curtain back, noted belatedly that when he did so, water splashed out onto the floor, and said, “What the hell kinda chick soap is this?” He waved the offending pink-studded bar toward Sam, who stood at the mirror doing her makeup.
She twisted her head to glance at him over her shoulder, powder brush held gracefully in one hand. Her smile was sweet, tinged with a little of the feminine smugness that told him she knew he was just as sore and tired as she had to be. “We’re a household of chicks. That’s a pomegranate and mandarin orange body bar.”
He felt his nose wrinkle at the idea. “You know I can’t use this, right?”
“I think you’ll smell nice.”
“I don’t want to smell ‘nice.’”
Her smile flickered and she clamped down on it. “Our neighbor has a dog. You could wander over into their yard and find a pile of shit to roll in. That wouldn’t count as nice, would it?”
With a snort of disgust, he snapped the curtain closed and heard her laugh.
Stupid soap; all the guys would give him shit about it.
Worth the hassle, though. Definitely. Last night still hummed in his blood.
He hadn’t expected it to feel the way that it had. He’d made up his mind weeks before that he wanted Sam. Not in the casual, curious way he wanted beautiful women who blew him kisses out of car windows or who sauntered up to him at bars. His craving for Sam had put a lump in his throat, had left him desperate, feeling as if something important were slipping through his fingers. It had come with a sense of loss that echoed eerily of the night he’d told Greg to run, only it was a sweet ache, and not a hollow one. Even then, he hadn’t had an idea it would be so different to touch her, taste her skin, be inside her.
He’d felt one hot second of shame when he’d realized he wouldn’t be able to go slow and treat her right. But she’d encouraged him, and he’d been lost.
He was still struggling to describe the experience in his head.
After, he’d dropped to the edge of sleep, and then resurfaced, to find Sam dozing against his chest, face peaceful, hair fanned across the pillow.
Beautiful. He’d roused her with a hand sliding between her legs, and she’d rolled onto her back at his urging. He’d been in total control that time, and he’d had to put his hand over her mouth so she wouldn’t wake her mother and sister.
The mother and sister who might at any moment discover he was still in the house.
He’d awakened alone in Sam’s bed, to find they’d somehow gotten under the covers during the night, and that dawn was touching the horizon, the room filled with faint gray light. He’d taken a moment to get his bearings. He heard water running through the pipes; smelled her skin and light perfume on the sheets, something fruity (he now knew it was this soap); took in the orderly room, its gray walls, black wooden bedstead and dresser, the chair in the corner with a pillow and footstool that told a story of much reading alone.
Silently, he’d tiptoed to the hall bath, and had found Sam toweling her hair, wrapped in an awful terry robe. He’d slipped in quick, closing and locking the door.
There’d been three silent seconds of eye contact, and then Sam had smiled shyly and returned her gaze to the mirror. “Good morning.”
It was the tamest “good morning” he’d ever received from a woman, and it had stirred things in him those two words had no right to.
A first. One of many.
Another first: feeling like a dickhead for stealing a little hot water. He’d had the morning-after shower more times than he could count. But that was usually in some chick’s apartment, sometimes trailer, sometimes hotel where they were spending their Knoxville vacation. It had never been a bathroom shared by two sisters who lived with their mother. Last night, in the dark, it had been easy to push all thoughts of collateral damage from his mind. But under the scalding spray of water, he was starting to worry that Helen Walton might seriously disapprove of him using her shower, soap, and towels, complete delinquent that he was. There would be no need for the “you’re not good enough for my daughter” spiel; it was too obvious to require vocalization.
When he shut off the water, one of Sam’s slender hands pushed past the curtain, holding a thick yellow towel.
“Thanks.”
It was soft as butter passing over his skin, reminding him of stayovers with Maggie and Ghost, the way Maggie managed the little comforting things in life with more skill than he ever could. Bachelor life almost seemed fantastic…until he spent a little time around quality linens, home cooked meals, and freshly stacked loads of laundry that appeared on his dresser as if by magic.
When he wrapped the towel around his hips and stepped out, he saw that Sam had set another towel down on the floor to absorb the water he’d slopped out of the shower stall. She had progressed to her hair, working the wet snarls loose with a comb, wincing when she hit a bad snag.
She glanced up and met his gaze through the mirror, smiling. “Did you wanna shave? I found a razor and some old cream that’s probably not too far out of date.” She motioned to said items, where she’d laid them out on the counter.
“You keep that on hand in case Doug ever asked to stay over?” he teased.
Her smile dimmed. “No,” she said softly. “Leftovers from Dad.”
