I roll my eyes, though my cheeks warm. “So what are you suggesting?”
He tilts his head toward the hall. “Shower. Two birds, one stone.”
“That’s… not efficient,” I say, even as he takes my hand and pulls me toward the bathroom.
“It’s very efficient,” he counters, grinning now. “Trust me.”
The moment the hot spray hits my skin, I feel his presence behind me, heat rolling off his body. His hands slide around my waist, pulling me back against the hard line of him.
“This isn’t efficient,” I murmur, though my voice catches when his lips find the curve of my neck.
“Feels efficient to me,” he says against my skin, his tone low and dark.
He lathers soap in his palms, smoothing it over my shoulders and down my arms, the glide of his touch slow and deliberate. When he reaches my breasts, he cups them, his thumbs circling until my head tips back against his chest, a soft gasp slipping out.
“Keep it down,” he murmurs, nipping lightly at my earlobe. “Wouldn’t want your mom wondering what’s going on in here.”
That warning only makes my pulse throb harder. I feel the ache low in my belly, the slick heat building between my thighs.
He turns me to face him, water streaming down the ridges of his chest. His eyes are locked on mine as he sinks to his knees, pressing a kiss to my stomach before trailing lower. When his mouth finds me, I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out.
One hand grips my hip, the other braced against the shower wall as his tongue works over me with slow, devastating precision. My knees threaten to give, but he holds me steady, his gaze flicking up, watching my face as I shudder under him.
When I come, it’s sharp and silent, my fingers tangled in his wet hair.
Before I can catch my breath, he’s standing, kissing me hard, and I can taste myself on his tongue. He spins me gently, my palms hitting the slick glass, and then he’s pushing inside me in one deep thrust.
I press my forehead to the glass, the fog from the steam blurring everything, and bite down on a whimper. He’s moving hard and fast, his hands gripping my hips, the sound of water mingling with the wet slap of skin on skin.
“You feel too damn good,” he growls into my ear, thrusts growing rougher, deeper, until I’m shaking again.
The tension snaps, and I come with a muffled cry, his name breaking from my lips. He follows seconds later, holding me flush against him as the water beats down on both of us.
We stand there for a moment, breathing hard, the steam wrapping around us like a cocoon.
Finally, he presses a kiss to my shoulder and murmurs, “Now we’re clean.”
By the time we’re both dressed, the air between us is still humming, every glance a reminder of what just happened in the shower.
Damien slings his tool belt over his shoulder, the motion casual, but his eyes catch mine and linger. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” I say, grabbing my jacket.
We step out into the cool morning air, the pavement still damp from last night’s storm. The street smells of wet asphalt and salt from the ocean.
Across the road, the Lawson place stands waiting, its peeling paint and weathered siding a far cry from the heat and closeness we just left behind.
Inside, the scent of sawdust greets us, and the echo of our footsteps in the mostly empty rooms feels louder than usual.Damien heads straight for the kitchen, where stacks of tools and wood trim are piled against the wall.
“You take the cabinet fronts,” he says, opening his toolbox. “I’ll work on the crown molding.”
I nod, slipping into work mode, though it’s hard to focus when I can still feel him — his hands, his mouth, the press of him against the glass. Every so often, I catch him glancing my way, and every time, my stomach flips.
We work like that for an hour, the sound of the saw and hammer filling the space, the tension between us as thick as the scent of fresh-cut wood.
It’s almost a relief when Ronnie’s name flashes on Damien’s phone, breaking the rhythm. He answers, but his eyes are still on me.
Chapter Sixteen
