The soap caught my attention first. I picked it up and brought it to my nose, inhaling deeply. It smelled familiar. Masculine. Woodsy and warm and...
It smelled exactly like Knox.
I looked at the shampoo. The conditioner. The body wash. All of them carried that same scent, that same warm masculine fragrance that made my stomach flutter every time I got close to him.
My mind drifted as the water ran over me. Knox’s lips on mine in the hospital shower. His hands gripping my hips. The hard press of his body against me. Those gray eyes, dark with want, fighting to stay focused on my face when I was naked and wet in front of him.
My hand started to drift lower.
No. Bad idea. Very bad idea.
I forced my hand back to the soap and scrubbed myself clean, trying to think about anything other than the man downstairs.
Since I woke up, I’d been so damn horny. Constantly aware of Knox, constantly thinking about his body, constantly fighting the urge to jump him. It was ridiculous. As if I’d spent years without sex and now the need was hitting me full force, demanding to be satisfied.
Was I always this way? Had my past self been a beast in bed?
I should ask Knox.
Or maybe not.
I finished showering before I could do anything I might regret and dried off, wrapping myself in a fluffy robe I found hanging on the back of the door. In the closet, I found comfortable clothes that must have been mine. Soft sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt that, I noticed, also smelled faintly of Knox.
Had I stolen his shirts to sleep in? That seemed like the kind of thing I would do.
I got dressed and headed downstairs, following the smell of cooking food to the kitchen.
Knox was standing at the stove, stirring a pot. Two plates were set on the breakfast island, along with glasses of water and a bottle of wine. He looked up when I walked in and his eyes swept over me, lingering on the shirt.
“That’s mine,” he said.
“Is it? I found it in the closet.”
“You steal my shirts.”
“Apparently.”
A small smile tugged at his lips. “I don’t mind. You look better in them anyway.”
I slid onto one of the stools at the island and watched him finish cooking. Spaghetti with meat sauce, from the smell of it. My stomach growled loudly.
“Hungry?” Knox asked, amused.
“Starving.”
He plated the food and brought it over, sitting across from me at the island. I took a bite and actually moaned.
“This is really good,” I said around a mouthful of pasta. “Really good.”
Knox ducked his head, a flush creeping up his neck. “Thank you.”
“You cook a lot?”
“When I can. You taught me some recipes. Before, I mostly survived on takeout and protein bars.”
We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes. The food was delicious, the wine was smooth, and sitting across from Knox in our kitchen felt right. Natural.
“Can I ask you about our history?” I said finally.
