He coughs and sputters, then climbs into the bathtub with me, stripping off his shirt, then his sleeping shorts, then his tighty-whities.
Oh, fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I mean, yes, good fuck, but also, we shouldn’t?—
He cuts off my internal screaming by tossing his clothes over the shower curtain rod, one by one, and with everyplopof wet clothes, I cannot help the giggles that come out of me.
“You can’t be in here,” I tell him while I struggle out of my own wet T-shirt. “We don’t both fit.”
This is a remarkably small bathtub.
It’s maybe large enough to bathe a Pomeranian.
Maybe.
“We fit fine,” he informs me.
I point at his morning boner, and my vagina tingles with the memory of what he can do with that thing. “We’re not doing anything in here.”
“We’re conserving water.”
“Who are you, and what have you done with Oliver?”
“He doesn’t exist anymore.” He traces the waistline of my panties with one finger.
They’re soaked.
And the shower water isn’t the only reason.
He has the best hands. I don’t know why I never noticed before, but he does.
Large.
Capable. With thick veins running over the backs of them.
His nails are short and well-kept.
I wonder if they’ll stay that way now that he’s out of the boardroom.
The thought of him working with me, digging up weeds, planting new native greenery, fixing fences—I shiver.
He’d look good working outside in the sun.
His fingers follow the path of fairy sprinkle tattoos up my belly again, like they did last night, lighting my skin up in goosebumps that are only partially from the initial cold blast of the shower.
“Oliver—” Shit.
That was a breathy, needy,take me nowway of saying his name.
“Are all normal showers this small? How am I supposed to ask a woman to wash my back if we can’t both fit in here?” he asks.
A throbbing need pulses low in my abdomen at the thought of washing his back. “No, not all normal showers are this small.”
“Although it’s not terrible. Turn sideways. For science. So I can see if we fit.”
I’m stupidly turned on and smiling at the same time.
