The water cascades around us, sliding down his torso in rivulets as I look up through my lashes. "I want you."
His hand tangles in my hair as I take him into my mouth, his head thudding back against the tiles with a muttered curse. The salty taste of him bursts across my tongue, the weight and heat intoxicating. I savor the way his breath hitches when I hollow my cheeks, reveling in the desperate way his fingers flex in my hair when I swirl my tongue just so.
The power is heady—he's always so composed, so effortlessly in control, now he's trembling above me as I work him with lips and tongue and hands. His ragged breathing fills the steamy air between us, every stifled moan and bitten-off curse a victory.
"Charlie," he warns after long, delicious minutes, his voice strained to breaking. "I'm close."
I pull back just enough to meet his darkened eyes, letting my lips curl in a smirk. "Good."
I take him deep again, my throat opening around him as my hand works what I can't take. He says my name when he comes, his hips stuttering, his fingers gentle even in their urgency as they cradle my face, holding me in place. The taste of him floods my mouth as I swallow everything he gives me.
Bash helps me up from my knees, his hands gentle but firm under my elbows. His eyes search mine, concern flickering beneath the lingering heat.
"You okay?" His voice is low, almost reverent in the steamy cocoon of the shower.
"I'm more than okay," I say, pushing wet hair from my face. "I'm perfect."
He tucks a strand behind my ear, thumb tracing the curve of my cheek.
I reach for the loofah hanging on the shower caddy, squeezing a dollop of body wash onto it. "Now let me help you wash." I make little circles on his chest, working up a lather that slides down the ridges of his abs. "We probably have, like, twenty minutes to get ready before someone starts pounding on the door."
Bash laughs, the sound echoing off the tile. "Think we can manage?"
"Depends how efficiently we can multitask." I trail the loofah lower, enjoying how his breath catches.
"I think we can manage." He takes the loofah from my hand, his fingers brushing mine as the soapy sponge glides across my collarbone, leaving a trail of bubbles in its wake.
After we're cleaned up, we step out and wrap ourselves in the plush towels my mother insisted on purchasing for every bathroom. Bash pulls me against him, his body radiating warmth as he presses a kiss to my forehead, his lips lingering.
"Just so we're clear," he murmurs, his voice dropping to that serious tone that always makes my stomach flip, even as the corner of his mouth twitches upward, "that wasn't fake."
I laugh, nestling into the solid wall of his chest. "Nothing about that felt fake."
"Good." His lips find mine again, soft and unhurried. "Because I'm starting to think I'm not very good at pretending when it comes to you."
The admission ripples through me, my heart stuttering beneath my ribs, half soaring, half plummeting into the unknown. Because I'm starting to think the same thing.
Chapter twenty-three
Charlie
I settle into my chair at The Alpine, grateful for the restaurant's warm amber lighting and the reassuring pressure of Bash's hand on my lower back as he guided me to my seat. After our... activities in the shower, I've been floating in a happy, satisfied haze that not even the prospect of dinner with Ethan and Olivia can pierce.
The restaurant is Aspen-chic, all reclaimed wood, stone fireplaces, and strategic lighting that makes everyone look like they've had a perfect day on the slopes. Our large table dominates one corner, my parents and the Harpers anchoring the middle of the table with animated conversation about the latest mountain gossip.
Ethan and Olivia are stationed at the far end, as if some invisible force field separates them from our collective joy. Olivia's face is frozen in what I can only describe as a perpetual scowl, though her forehead remains suspiciously smooth. I take a sip of my wine to hide my smirk. Whoever her aesthetician is deserves a raise—that Botox is holding the line against her obvious displeasure like a champion.
"You look happy," Bash murmurs, his breath tickling my ear as he leans in close.
"I am," I admit, turning to catch his eye. "Even with the ex from hell over there."
He grins, that crooked smile of his "They can't touch us."
I believe him. For the first time since Ethan blindsided me with his "I need space" speech that quickly translated to "I supposedly need space to sleep with my coworker," I truly don't care what he thinks.
Across from us, Addie slouches in her chair, her face illuminated by her phone screen. She occasionally glances up to deliver a perfect one-liner before retreating back to whatever social media vortex has captured her attention. She reminds me of Emily at that age. Observing everything, saying little, but missing nothing.
Emily and Sarah hit it off immediately, their conversation flowing from skiing to romance books to embarrassing stories about Bash and me when we were kids. I catch snippets about "that time Sebastian tried to skateboard down the stairs" and wince at Emily's counter of "Charlie's disastrous attempt at blue hair dye, I'm talking Blue Man Group blue."
