We’ve kissed before, but this feels different. Almost out of place in comparison to every other time we’ve kissed, which has only ever been in anticipation of, or during, sex.
The kiss is gentle, unhurried. There is nothing transactional about it, nothing urgent. Just the soft press of our mouths, the heat that lingers in the space between us.
He pulls away only for a moment before planting another quick kiss. He smiles against my lips and says, “More of that later.”
Turning our attention to our laptops, he brings his hand to rest on my thigh as he gets to work.
We work mostly in silence for the next few hours before James speaks up.
“We’ve got two hours until dinner. I’m going to freshen up.”
“I’d love a shower.”
I close my laptop and stand, stretching the cramped muscles in my back.
The sun is lower now, the windows a mural of orange and blue. A small part of me wants to skip the conference dinner. To just stay up here and let the city fade into darkness while James sits next to me, grounding me in place with the warm weight of his hand.
But we’re here for work.
I head toward the bedroom and into the bathroom. James doesn’t follow, but I leave the door cracked for him.
An invitation.
The bathroom is as overdone as the rest of the suite with gold fixtures, an acre of marble, a little velvet stool by the vanity. I setmy phone on the counter and undress, folding my clothes into a neat pile next to my phone because it feels wrong to let them touch the floor.
The water is a roar overhead, the rainfall shower splattering hot needles down my shoulders and back. I stand there for a minute, eyes closed, letting the water rinse the worry out of my muscles.
I’m mid-shampoo when I hear James’s voice, soft but impossible to miss.
“Do you need anything?”
I turn, shampoo in my eyes, and find him leaning in the doorway, one shoulder braced against the frame. He’s shed the rest of his suit, standing in basic black boxer briefs and nothing else. The shape of him knocks the breath out of me: not just the long, lean lines of his body, but the way he stands there, unselfconscious, all sculpted muscle and elaborate ink.
“I wouldn’t mind if you joined me.”
He looks me up and down, smirking.
He walks to the sink and turns to lean against it, like he’s considering it. But he faces the mirror, grabbing his leather pouch of toiletries, and pulls out his shaving cream and razor.
“If I get in there, we won’t be making it to dinner on time.” He shrugs. “Doesn’t mean I can’t watch,” he says, letting his gaze shift to my reflection in the mirror.
“You want to watch me shower?” I tease, running my hands over my breasts and down my torso.
He bites his lip, and I see his grip tighten on the edge of the counter like he’s having to hold himself back from joining me.
I smile to myself, knowing I’ve got him right where I want him.
He applies his shaving cream, keeping his eyes on my reflection. He might not be naked, but I can’t keep my eyes off him either.
It feels intimate, almost domestic. Like something a married couple would do. It feels like we’re skipping several steps, but it’s not uncomfortable.
I’m more shocked by how comfortable itdoesfeel.
I take my time, sliding the soap along the arch of my ribs, along the inside of my thigh, feeling the heat of his gaze like an invisible touch.
“You going to keep staring, or are you going to say something?” I ask, twisting my hair into a silky knot and letting it fall free again.
“I’m just appreciating the view,” he says, but his voice is rougher, the sound of a man losing patience with himself.
