He grins, wiping water from his brows. Then he leans back, shoulders rolling as he sprawls out in the tub, arms wide.
I shift, and my foot lands squarely on his cock.
His eyebrow lifts.
Sixty seconds later, I’m clambering out of the tub, every nerve ending confused about whether we’re dying or incredibly alive.
Patrick follows a minute later, chuckling as he wraps me in a fluffy towel. The warmth against my frozen skin feels obscene.
My phone buzzes on the counter. We both glance at it automatically.
He raises a brow. “Cute Fisherman?”
Oh God. That’s what I saved Malcolm under.
I clear my throat, cheeks burning. “It’s technically accurate. He is objectively cute. And he fishes professionally. I’m very literal with my contact names.”
I open the message and can’t help smiling. “He was out until six this morning. He’s checking if I survived—”
Patrick’s hand engulfs my wrist. He takes the phone and sets it aside with a dismissive flick. “You need to get in the shower to warm up.”
My eyes widen. “Your shower?”
“Unless you want to walk home dripping. Though I wouldn’t recommend it.”
I giggle, nerves fizzing in my throat. “The ice bath did help,” I babble. “But… yeah. I could do with heating up.”
His mouth twitches. “We’ll sort that.”
He takes my hand and leads me down the hall, like there’s nothing strange about me padding naked into his bathroom wrapped in a towel.
He twists the dial, and the overhead shower roars to life. Steam billows out, fogging the glass.
“In,” he commands.
I hesitate, fingers white-knuckling the towel. Then I remember I already stood naked in front of him outside.
I drop the towel and step under the spray before I can overthink it.
The hot water is heavenly against my ice-tortured skin. I let out an embarrassingly loud groan. “Oh my God, this is better than... well, most things.”
He drops his towel and steps in beside me, pulling the glass door shut. The tinyclickmakes the space feel suddenly about twelve inches.
He’s so big, towering over me, taking up every inch, and I’m still just me—awkward, unpracticed, trying not to look like I’m completely out of my depth.
He’s already hard. Cock thick and flushed, pressed up his stomach. My stomach swoops, partly becauseholy hell, and partly because this is apparently all down to me.Me. Georgie. The girl in Periodic Table shorts.
He reaches for the soap. His hands lather slow over his chest, down his shoulders, ridges of muscle gleaming wet, down the ridges of his thighs. He doesn’t shy away when his palm glides over his cock, stroking himself casually as if he knows I can’t look anywhere else.
A rough chuckle rumbles out of him. “Close your mouth.”
“It’s my turn,” I stammer.
He steps closer. His cock pushes against my stomach.
My breath catches as his hands settle on my waist. His palms span me easily, thumbs brushing just under the curve of my breasts as though he’s testing how much of me he can hold in one grip.
“You’re tiny,” he murmurs over the rush of the water.
