“I should--” He gestures vaguely toward the bathroom. “Before the water gets cold.”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“Help me carry these?” he asks, already lifting two of the heavy containers.
Of course. Because the universe has decided I haven’t suffered enough today.
We make our way down the hall in loaded silence. And I mean that literally, we’re loaded down with containers of hot water.
I’m super aware of how close we’re walking, how our arms keep almost brushing with each step. How if I turned my head even slightly, I could see the exact expression on his face.
I don’t turn my head.
In the guest bathroom he pours his containers into the tub while I set mine on the counter, and we’re doing this careful dance of not-quite-touching that’s somehow more intimate than any actual contact would be.
The second trip is worse because we actually lightly brush against each other a few times. The air smells like steam and his cologne and something else I can’t name but makes my underwear feel super wet.
Pour. Set down the empties. Be super careful not to brush against each other again.
Third trip, my hands are shaking slightly as I lift the final containers. This is ridiculous. We’re transporting heated water.
There’s nothing inherently romantic or sexual about basic hygiene preparation. People have been heating bathwater for literally thousands of years without developing inappropriate feelings for each other.
Then again, those people probably weren’t trapped in isolated mountain chalets with men who look like Gregory Falk does.
Final trip down the hall. My shoulder bumps his accidentally, or maybe not accidentally, and he makes this small sound low in his throat.
Oh god.
I’m not going to make it.
We reach the bathroom and pour the last of the water. He sets the empties on the counter while I test the temperature in the tub, trailing my fingers through to make sure it’s not too hot.
“Perfect,” I manage, pulling my hand back.
When I turn, he’s right there. Literally. Towering over me. Close enough I can see the way his pulse beats at his throat, and the exact shade of blue his eyes are in this light.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
“Yeah. Of course. No problem.” I’m backing toward the door, needing distance before I do something catastrophically stupid. “I’ll just. Be out there. By the fire. In the great room. Not thinking about you naked in here.”
Oh my god, why do I keep saying things like that?
His mouth curves into something that’s definitely not quite a smile but does devastating things to my core. “Sorrel.”
“Yep, leaving now, goodbye!” I flee.
I slam the door shut behind me.
I make it back to the great room and collapse onto the sectional, pressing my hands to my flushed cheeks.
All I can think about is him stripping down in that bathroom. Without me. Peeling off that cashmere sweater he’s been wearing for days, revealing those hard muscles I’ve been very determinedly not staring at. The water sluicing over his skin. His hands... those big, capable hands that just touched mine.. washing away three days of woodsmoke and sweat. Soaping his washboard abs. Soaping his cock.
In the tub I was just in.
Jesus Christ.
Get it together.
