Handsome and smart.I have no clue who he quoted, but I don’t really care. “Then you’re my favorite mistake.”
Smiling, I step back just enough to slide my hand down his t-shirt, so I can yank the offending material off his body. He laughs at my eagerness, reaching back to his collar to help me with that one-handed shirt removal guys do that looks effortlessly sexy.
He shakes out his thick, dirty-blond hair, the shirt relegated to the cold tile, and I bite my lower lip to keep myself from grinning when I’m treated to all six-foot-something of muscled man. Of broad shoulders painted with ink and shadow and shapes that contour his powerful physique.
Pushing up on my toes, I press a kiss to his sternum and run my fingers through his smattering of chest hair. Like I’m following a treasure map, I let the trail lead me lower. He smells so good—like soap and leather and man. His hair is still damp and curling at the ends from a shower he took earlier this evening, but I don’t remind him that he’s already clean.
His gunmetal-blue eyes stay pinned on mine as I unbutton his jeans and shove off the denim. I look down to find his bulge straining against his boxer briefs.
And what a beautiful bulge it is.
With a held breath, I skate my finger along the thick curve, but before I make it to the tip, he catches my wrist in his big palm.
“No dessert before dinner,” he chides.
I laugh and dart into the shower, letting out a squeal when he smacks my ass.
Why is he so much fun? He works tirelessly every day, his brow furrowed as he slaves in the barn, only to be this flirty, sweet guy when he comes home.
Home.
My heart warms at that word and how I’ve come to associate it with Ethan and his family.
He joins me a moment later—stark naked—and my girly parts spasm at the sight. The man is built like one of his horses. Sleek, smooth, strong.
And very hung.
He wraps me in his arms, my back to his chest. Like this, his impressive erection thumps against my rear, and I expect him to ravish me, but instead, he nibbles my neck.
“Let’s wash your hair.”
And he does. Working in the shampoo until I’m covered in bubbles and a lovely grapefruit scent.
The feeling of his strong hands massaging my scalp has me wanting to purr and curl up at his feet like his pet.
After rinsing it out, he repeats the motions with conditioner.
I’m a wrung-out mass of relaxed muscle by the time he’s done. My eyelids droop, my breath is a slow, labored effort, and my entire body feels boneless.
“How are you so good at this?” I cringe at my question, because do I really want to know about his experiences with his ex-wife or former girlfriends?Yeah, no.
The thought of him with other women is enough to send a sharp shard of jealousy through me. Even though that’s ridiculous. We’re only starting out. Barely becoming awe. I can’t become a crazy jealous lover if we’re hardly even lovers.
I brace myself, just in case, but the effort is unnecessary.
“I have two kids, remember?” But then he kisses my neck and murmurs, “I’m glad you’re enjoying this, though, because I’ve never washed a woman’s hair before.”
All that anxiety melts away like a thunderstorm dissolving into the horizon.
How was he married and yet this is the first time? Isn’t this something a husband does for his wife from time to time?
Because, yeah, if Ethan were my husband, I’d want the deluxe package. Hair-washing, conditioning, and steamy shower sex. On the regular.
My heart does a happy skip in my chest at the thought of Ethan being mine in a permanent kind of way.
Calm down, crazy. He hasn’t asked you to pick out wedding invitations.
His big hands land on my hips and slowly turn me, and I’m smiling from all of his attention. From knowing I’m the first woman he’s touched like this.
